Crazy on You
by roxystyle011
Summary: Grammy winning recording artist Rachel Berry gets court-ordered to see a Therapist following an incident with the paparazzi. Faberry.
1. Chapter 1

"_And in today's sleeze, everyone's favorite love-to-hate diva Rachel Berry has been court ordered to see a therapist as part of her plea agreement regarding her July 14__th__ arrest, the celeb avoided rehab and 30 days in jail after the Drunk in Public charges were dropped last week when police neglected to give her a breathalyzer. Berry accepted the therapy and in return her Resisting Arrest charge was dropped. What do you guys think? Did she get let off too easi—" _

"For Christ's sake, turn this God damn station off."

Honestly, is it that hard to realize that I'm still sitting in the car? Why would I want to hear some underpaid and pathetic radio station DJ talk about my life like he knows what happened?

"My apologies, Miss Berry."

I sigh and look out the window before throwing the tabloid across the seat. There's a thin light drizzle coming down every few minutes, not enough for an umbrella but enough to glisten the cars. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I want to apologize to the man, but I would never. I can see his eyes down casted through the rearview mirror and it makes my stomach twist. I grab the black remote and point it towards him. Within seconds the heavily tinted window is up and I'm left alone in my thoughts.

My eyes train on the yellow cabs that drive by me, some people looking, and some people too caught up in their own world to care. A few kids are looking out the window wide eyed, first time in New York most likely. I remember my first time in this city. I remember sitting in a taxi and passing a limo sitting idly on the side of the road, wondering who it could be, someone famous and glamorous for sure. I wonder if that celebrity was a cold hearted bitch like I turned out to be. I glance at the watch my father gave me for Hanukah 3 years ago, the only possession I truly adore, and notice that my assistant has been gone for far too long.

I miss the smell of a Starbucks, I miss the interaction, I miss staring at the chalked board for 5 minutes debating on whether I wanted a hot or a cold drink. People didn't recognize me, and then they were star struck, and now they're just judgmental and disgusted by me. I stopped going in a year ago.

The door opens and for a second I'm hit with car horns and chatter from the people that pass by, my assistant slides into the car, and hands me my cup. I take a sip, I need the caffeine. She waits patiently, eying me in curiosity. This is my 4th assistant of the year, a testament to my ways, considering I didn't fire any of them. They all left voluntarily, and rather hastily. Lauren has been around the longest however, she's my 6th assistant overall. If she was smart, she'd quit too, she could get any job she wanted after enduring Rachel Berry for 4 months. Maybe it's because she's young, and a little naïve. Maybe it's because she's paying off student loans and needs the large paychecks, or maybe it's because she truthfully finds the experience rewarding, which is what she tells me.

She waits. I turn to her and give her a nod; she lets out a sigh and begins to drink her own drink. I still don't know what she gets. I've never asked. She enjoys it though because she gets it every time.

She clears her throat, "I've already called your publicist, and there was nothing she could do about the leak. It was an insider at the courtroom, they're looking into it."

I turn towards her, somehow she always knows. Out of all of my assistants, she's by far the best. I don't tell her that. I would never tell her that I don't push her to the brink because I'd actually miss her if she was gone. She's incredibly attractive too, she's easy to look at and I don't automatically hate her when I look at her. She's also fierce, and it comes out sometimes. I don't mind even if I pretend I do, sometimes I need the slap in the face.

I don't respond, I casually sip my drink and watch the people pass me by as we drive down the streets I used to walk down. I feel stupid in sunglasses, it's raining out and I'm in a heavily tinted limousine. The only purpose they serve are to hide my teary eyes as I wish I could switch places with the people on the street.

"You have a meeting with your new lawyer after therapy and your dinner with Tristan at 143 is at eight now instead of seven, you are instructed to use the front entrance for the paparazzi."

I sigh, "Yes fine, tell me how it is that I'm ordered to do this therapy when all charges were dropped?" I ask, peering out of the window, "Why was he even hired in the first place if he wasn't going to do his job?" I turn towards the girl.

She clears her throat, "Which is why he was fired and replaced."

"He could have at least had the decency to defend me instead of using me for his own personal agenda."

She agrees. I hope it's because she actually agrees and it's not because she's paid to.

The car rolls to a stop and Lauren hops out of the car. The building is tall, too tall for me to make the effort to look up at. She walks ahead of me, I peer left and right, something about the scene is unsettling.

"Lauren?"

"Yes, Miss Berry?" she turns to look at me.

"If everyone knows I start therapy today, where are all the reporters and assholes?"

I'm not vain; I'm relieved and genuinely curious. It feels so good.

"Everyone was told a false therapist should something leak, luckily we took those precautions. The only people that know are a few people on your staff"

I shrug, somewhat impressed with their initiative, I wonder if it was Lauren's idea. I like to think that the smart ideas are Lauren's.

We walk across the marble flooring to the elevator, as the door closes Lauren peers at her PDA and presses the number 19, there are only 25 floors.

"Where would you like to meet your new lawyer for lunch?"

I run through some options, "I don't care, let him pick."

"Actually, it's a woman."

"Oh, well then let her pick," I correct and study the elevator.

The bell dings and the floor opens.

"So does this Dr. McIntyre know that he's seeing me?" I ask, remembering that only my staff knows who I'm seeing.

I don't even know if the name I have for him is correct. My staff can sometimes be sneakier than I give them credit for.

"Not Dr. McIntyre and I'm sorry Miss Berry but I don't even know his name. I was just told the building and floor," she shrugs, she seems genuinely sorry.

I huff. This is so like whoever it is that pulls the strings, keep me out of the loop.

"Go find out," I snap.

She turns and walks toward the receptionist, announcing my arrival. She's speaking quietly so no one knows that I'm there. I roll my eyes. I bet she's afraid that they'll throw eggs at me or something. I fall into the chair exaggeratedly, there are magazines scattered across the oak table and I survey them. They're all lame so I try to pick the least lame one to occupy my time. I'm not sure what time my appointment is so glancing at my watch doesn't help me at all. I peer over the chair to see my assistant arguing with the receptionist and I smirk. Such fire that one. I wonder what is going on.

I stand up once I hear Lauren practically shriek.

"What's going on?" I ask, I still haven't taken off my sunglasses.

"Everything is fine, Miss Berry," Lauren tries to tell me, "Just a minor misunderstanding that I'm fixing."

"I apologize ma'am but this is not a mistake, if you'd like to see the document then you surely can, I'm afraid not even you can get Miss Berry out of this," the receptionist says. I've seen her before, the way her eyes are on me definitely sends off that alarm. She looks vengeful, passed her fake smile and closed lips, she's enjoying this.

"This is a serious conflict of interest, you understand this?" Lauren snaps.

The receptionist shakes her head, her eyes going back to my assistant's, "I'm afraid I don't understand. But it's out of your hands now," she leans forward, daring Lauren to push further, and I don't like her tone much.

"Someone tell me what the hell is going on," I shout, it was the only way I would be heard and answered.

Lauren looks at me, hesitant; whatever is going on must be pretty big. She's scared.

"Dr. Fabray will see you now," the receptionist pipes up.

Lauren's eyes go wide before she turns and practically growls at the woman behind the desk.

"I'm sorry, what?" I turn to her.

She gives me a smile, a smile that I want to slap off of her face. But I can't afford another assault charge against me, and people are starting to use my mug shots as pictures for me to autograph. I certainly don't intend to give them another photo for their Rachel Berry collectors set.

"I was unaware that I stuttered."

I'm shocked by her response. Not because I'm expecting better treatment because of my status, but because I'm in a professional place of business and that it no way to treat any client. Deserving or not.

Lauren is just as shocked. "Excuse me, but you cannot speak to her like that."

"Jocelyn," a quiet voice manages to boom across the room. My body tenses. "Can I see you in my office please?"

The receptionist is looking rather sheepish when she stands and hangs her head as she walks out of my eye sight. Once I hear the door close I turn towards my assistant.

"What. The. Fuck."

She runs a hand through her recently died brown hair, for the colder months, "I understand completely Miss Berry, had I known, something would have been done about this. I can assure you that I will be on the phone for the rest of the day until this matter is amended."

I wonder briefly how she knows how big of a deal this is, then again, she knows everything.

My voice is low, "Do you understand how big of a conflict this is? How not right this is?" my voice quickly rises, "You will fix this," I tell her pointedly, "I don't care what needs to be done, I will go to jail before I succumb to this, do you understand me?"

She gulps, almost comically, and I would have laughed if it were any other situation, "I understand."

There's fear in her eyes, maybe afraid that this will be her last day as my assistant, she knows this can't be fixed. I know just as well.

The door opens, the red haired receptionist walks out, not making eye contact with any of us and the tall blonde is in the doorway a moment later. I'm facing her now and I can't avoid her.

"Miss Berry, please come in," she gestures sweetly; I can't tell if her smile is real or plastered.

I look towards my assistant one more time, I feel as though I'm walking toward the execution chair.

"You leave if it's too much. I'll have the car back here in 5 minutes," she tells me, I feel a little better.

When I look up again the doorway is empty. I take my time walking towards the office.

Once I get inside, I survey the room. It's spacious and modern; a few antique decorations here and there. She's sitting behind a big dark mahogany desk, her eyes trained down as she's writing something. The walls are an olive green color and there's a white area rug in front of the white couch. For being pure evil, she did have good taste. It was strange not finding any trace of her former self, no pom-poms on the wall, no trophy case full of distant memories, no collages of wild times. Just a few abstract pictures, her diplomas framed on the wall and some other small cliché therapist decorations. Two pictures sat on her desk, angled away from the couch.

She looks up finally, her eyes meeting mine. Well, meeting my sunglasses. She gestures to the couch before she gets up and shuts the door. She comes back to her leather chair and picks up whatever she was working on.

She clears her throat, "Rachel Berry, you understand that this is a court ordered sanction and all charges will be officially dropped upon the completion of 30 hours, at that time with my written analysis and approval stating that you've fulfilled your obligation and I've gotten the desired results, are you legally unbound," she finishes reading peering over to me as I sit in silence, already bored out of my mind.

"I'll assume your silence is your way of agreeing and you can sign the document when you leave today," she glances at her watch and takes off her reading glasses, "Now that _that's_ over with," she rolls her eyes playfully, as if she's trying to down play the entire situation, I'm infuriated.

"You realize how completely fucked up this is right?" I cross my arms.

She's taken aback at first before she quickly recovers with a small smile, she also crosses her arms and leans back in her chair a bit, "I realize, it's also out of my control, I found out 15 minutes before you arrived that you were my 11am," she tells me, like that's supposed to make me feel better.

"Whatever."

"Would you mind taking off your glasses while you're in the office?"

"Seriously?"

"Look, Miss Berry—"

"What? Tired of RuPaul?"

She sighs, "Rachel, is this going to be a constant attack on me? I'd rather not go in circles for the next 10 weeks."

"And I'd rather not be here for the next 10 weeks."

"Look, this needs to be a respectful environment if I'm going to do my job and you want to avoid their punishment for you should you not successfully complete the 30 hours. I will respect you and I ask that you will do the same for me."

I'm silent.

"So would you please take off your sunglasses?"

I take them off. Not because she wants me to but because I don't want to end up in jail. Not that this isn't shaping up to be like a jail.

"Thank you," she gives me another smile, "You've certainly made a name for yourself."

"Is that a joke?"

"A mere observation."

"Whatever Fabray, don't sit there and try to patronize me, or think that you're better than me because you're on the other side of that desk. Don't think that you're going to change me or make me believe that you've somehow changed from the person you used to be, you're still a stuck up cheerleader that got pregnant in high school. At least I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not."

She stands out of her chair, bringing along a small folder as she circles to the front of the desk, "Is this going to continue to be about high school? Is that the real reason you're sitting on this couch?" she asks, taking a seat next to me.

"Maybe it is. It doesn't really matter, you're my therapist and you have to listen to what I have to say, if it ends up back to high school then oh well."

She sighs while studying me, "You're right, I shouldn't find it inappropriate that we're talking about the past, nothing about this is normal but that doesn't mean that I shouldn't follow my routine. With my other patients I encourage them to talk frequently about the past; I shouldn't be discouraging you from doing that. Anything is fair game, okay?" she asks, I don't answer. I'm too busy thinking of ways that I can smother her and still get away with it.

She kicks off her heels and they fall to the white carpet, she brings her legs on the couch and leans against the arm rest, fully facing my body. She gets comfortable and rests the folder next to her. I'm still facing ahead, occasionally taking a sip from my Starbucks drink.

"Why don't you believe that I've changed?" she asks after a few minutes of pure silence.

I scoff, "People like you never change, your charm just gets better over the years"

She laughs, "My charm? I was never charming," I stay silent, "You've changed," she observes.

She pulls out the folder that slid into the cushion, she opens it and begins reading, "Drunk and Disorderly in public, Resisting Arrest, a restraining order from a paparazzi, a few assaults, it seems like you're the one that is pretending to be someone else."

"You don't think I have enough people in my life to tell me this type of shit?"

Like, seriously? They're paid to tell me how big of a fuck up I've become.

"I never said I believed any of it," she flings the folder onto the matching mahogany coffee table; it slides before coming to a rest.

This gets me to stop.

"None of those things are true," I tell her.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"No."

"Sooner or later you will."

"Well when later gets here, I will," I catch her pursing her lips, "How hard is this for you? To sit here and become frustrated knowing you can't insult me like you normally would? It's got to be tempting."

She shakes her head, "It's not, hard for me that is. And nothing is tempting me; I'm not that person anymore."

"Liar," I reply under my breath, I'm sure she heard me.

It's silent again; I can feel her eyes on me.

"You look good, Rachel," she says after at least 5 minutes. "You've lost some weight and the argyle I see," she smiles.

I glare at her, "So I was fat in High School?"

"No, not at all. I just hope you're staying healthy and eating properly," she says.

"Which is another way of saying I hope you're not a coke head?"

"No, that's not what I was saying."

"It was too, I'm sure you've read all the 'insider stories' of my coke habits and how it's lead to my heroin use."

Fucking _Star_ Magazine.

Her eyes bulge out of her head, "You really do that stuff?"

"Of course not! That's my point, people believe anything."

"Why don't we use our time to confront these types of things, rumors start from somewhere, we can figure out how they're being started and prevent them."

I scoff, "Rumors get started because people have no lives, they built me up and now they're hell bent on my destruction. They think they know me, they think they have some kind of right to judge me, because all I've ever wanted to do was sing so I deserve this kind of treatment."

"You don't deserve that kind of treatment, no one does."

"Well maybe you should be talking to the people that see me run to my car because I'm late for a meeting and decide that because I couldn't sign autographs that I'm ungrateful and rude. Maybe you can psycho-analyze them."

"I'm not psycho-analyzing you, we're just having a conversation."

"Yeah, so this can go into some notebook you keep of the things I say, 'is she crazy? Is she depressed?'" I mock her

She nods, "You're right, I do have to write some notes down, but that's just for me to remember what we discussed so I don't lose track," she tells me.

She must know that I don't believe her so she continues.

"There's a reason I don't have a video camera or voice recorder out like I do with my other patients. Would you rather me sit here and write down everything you say? Would that suit you?" she asks with a little fire behind her voice.

"Why don't you?" I ask, for the first time turning to face her.

She must notice because she has a ghost of a smile on her lips.

"Because I want you to trust me, I don't want you to feel that this is mandatory, I don't want you to feel uncomfortable to talk about things," she says.

I roll my eyes, "It's a little late for that, and you're seriously naïve if you believe that I'm going to discuss my personal life with you after our history together, we're practically natural enemies."

"You don't really believe that, do you?" she asks, for a second she sounds hurt.

"Because you've given me reason to believe otherwise?"

She sighs, not knowing what to say.

"Why don't you go home and dig up your old yearbooks, get a good laugh at all the pictures you defaced of me," I tell her venomously, I think of even more, "Oh! And then I'll bring in mine and you can flip through all the empty pages of lovely messages that people forgot to write me," I tell her bitterly.

There's sadness behind her eyes, by now I'm sitting Indian style on the admittedly comfortable couch.

"I doubt they are all empty," she counters, "Are you sure you've checked every page?"

I study her, she's weird.

"Ya know what? Yeah, I sit in my room every night and turn the pages desperately hoping that a signature will magically appear. Please, I haven't looked at those books since the day I graduated High School, I'd have burned them if I could. I haven't looked back since I left Lima. They're just a reminder of the old Rachel Berry that got stepped on. I do the stepping now."

"Does it make you feel good? Walking over people?"

"Do not suddenly start preaching to me. Do not do it, Quinn. You have no idea what it felt like to have you torment me every single day just for being myself. What it felt like to have no one to turn to because you had them all wrapped around your fingers. You want to know something? I did change; I changed because you made me feel insignificant in my own body. I was tired of waking up in the morning feeling pathetic because you made me feel that way the night before when I had to pick out two school outfits should one get ruined by your slushies, and I was tired of crying myself to sleep because I continued to make excuses for you. You never apologized, you never saw the error in your ways, and you never gave a damn about anyone but yourself. You made me want to run so far away from that town that I refuse to acknowledge it in interviews, that I wasn't by my Dad's side when he was sick, that I had to second guess going back for my own father's funeral. You made me a pathetic nobody back then and I was the one that turned Rachel Berry into a somebody. What you had was practically given to you, and I earned what I have now so don't ask me if it makes me feel good, because it feels damn good. But I'm sure you already knew that."

I'm breathing heavy as I pace the floor behind the couch. When I stood I can't be sure, I may have blacked out during my rant because her face indicates that whatever I said affected her. She's staring at me over the back of the couch, my purse is on my shoulder somehow and my coffee cup is on the table.

"Rachel, I—"

"Don't," I tell her and begin walking towards the door, "I'm done for the day."

"You still have another forty minutes," she shakily tells me.

"I don't care, charge yourself for the whole hour. I can't be in this room with you any longer."

And with that I open the door and make sure to let it slam behind me. The receptionist doesn't even bother looking up from the desk as I storm towards the exit and leave the office. The elevator is taking forever to arrive, I don't have the patience to stand and wait. If Quinn comes after me, which I doubt because her pride is everything to her, I don't want to be cornered for her to convince me to stay. I find the stair case and on my way down I phone my assistant.

The car is outside by the time I finished going down 18 flights of stairs, I'm winded but I don't mind the burn. Lauren is outside on the phone, and it's then that I realize I left my sunglasses in her office. She ends the call upon seeing me.

"Miss Berry, is everything okay?"

"Go up and retrieve my sunglasses for me, I forgot them."

She doesn't question me and moves swiftly towards the building and up to the office. I fidget in the car as I wait for her return. She comes back within 5 minutes looking flustered, she slides in and hands me my glasses, which I put on my face almost instantaneously.

"What did she say?"

I know Quinn Fabray and she always needs the last word.

"She didn't say anything."


	2. Chapter 2

"Miss Berry, if we don't leave now we won't be able to stop and get you Starbucks."

I hear Lauren on the other side of my door, she's been here for 30 minutes, and she's driving me crazy.

"I told you Lauren, I'm not going."

I hear her sigh before there's a timid knock on the door, it's very unlike her.

I'm intrigued.

"Come in."

She peers into my master bedroom, a place she's only been in maybe a handful of times. Mostly when I'm running around and need help with something does she enter this room. It's a place where I like to be alone, where I like to forget the life I created for myself.

She gestures to the bed and I nod, allowing her to sit.

"I know that you don't want to go back, you missed Wednesday's session and while it seemed Dr. Fabray's office was understanding, I don't believe that it can go on forever."

I sigh, I know she's right. I'm resting against the headboard; the covers are over my legs.

"She also told me to tell you that if you should miss today's session then she would make it a point to come here for your appointments."

"What? Absolutely not!"

I fling the covers off of my bare legs and step onto the floor, there was no way I would ever let that woman near my home.

"That will be all Lauren," I tell her as I walk into the closet to get ready.

I'm in the car before I know it and there's a coffee drink in my hand before I can blink. My mind is filled with hateful words and venomous threats for Quinn Fabray, the nerve she has. I know she takes pleasure in seeing me this way. Monday was a fluke; I let her get to me which is what I think she wanted. I don't show that side of myself to anyone, I'm a cold hearted bitch to anyone that tries to get close to knocking down one of my walls.

"Can I ask you something?" I turn towards my assistant as she's scribbling something down in her agenda.

"Of course," she puts down both her phone and the notebook and gives me her full attention.

"How did you know that I had a history with Dr. Fabray?"

It occurred to me after I got home on Monday that she'd reacted almost immediately upon learning the identity of my therapist. It wouldn't have surprised me in any other situation because my assistants are briefed and quizzed for at least a week on my likes and dislikes, what's acceptable and what is not. Something like this wouldn't be tossed around in my assistant's case study of me, it has irked me since Monday and it's already Friday.

She clears her throat and ducks her head, "I don't know the extent of your history, I just recognized the name"

"How?"

She gets more uncomfortable, which is most often a bad sign, "Well your previous assistant had mentioned it, I'm assuming it's passed down knowledge."

I nod, that's what I was figuring but I had to be sure.

"And well…" 

My head snaps up again.

"Go on."

"There was that incident after you ran into an old acquaintance from High School in Los Angeles."

I remember very vividly suddenly which incident she was talking about.

"I see," I'm silent for a bit, replaying the scene in my head that ultimately led to a restraining order, "You should mind your own business," I tell her coldly.

"With all due respect Miss Berry, it's my job to be in your business."

I want to laugh because she's one hundred percent right, "Then you're very good at your job," I tell her. It's the closest thing to a compliment that she's ever gotten.

I don't need to look at her face to know that she's blushing and wearing a smile that is bigger than mine will ever be again.

"We're here," she announces getting out of the car as it rolls to a stop.

The elevator music is annoying me, I want to sing along. Lyrics are piling up in my brain and spilling out to meet the tune of the song. I need a piece of paper and pencil.

"Miss Berry is here for Dr. Fabray," Lauren tells the receptionist as I stand next to her.

"Oh wow, Miss Berry…it is an honor to meet you," the woman says.

She looks different.

"Where is the other girl?"

She's about to answer when I hear a soft voice.

"Erin, you can send Miss Berry in now," she tells her before retreating back into her stupid office.

I roll my eyes, I was fucking standing right here. She could have directed her statement to me.

I get into her office and this time I close the door, I make sure it slams a little bit.

She doesn't look up from her desk and I make my way over to the uncomfortable couch that I'm starting to hate. She's writing something again and I wonder if it's about me. I'm not vain, promise.

I'm starting to grow impatient, it's about five minutes before I take my sunglasses off and throw them onto the table.

She looks up and smiles, "Hi Rachel."

Son of a bitch.

I don't respond, I continue to bounce my leg and drag my nails across the arm of the chair as I look at her, hoping to convey how much I hate her.

"I missed you on Wednesday, are you feeling better?" she asks, it's not sarcastic and it makes me mad that she's pretending to not know the real reason I didn't come.

"No."

"Well I appreciate you taking the time to make it today."

There's a glint in her eyes that unsettles me.

"Like I had a choice," I scoff.

She stands up, this time with nothing in her hands and walks over to the couch, taking a seat on the same side that she did yesterday. She kicks off her heels and sits Indian style.

"I wanted to start today by starting over."

"What?"

She sighs, almost as if this is hard for her, puh-lease, "I want to tell you how sorry I am for the way I treated you. Everything you said was right, I'm ashamed of myself and the way I acted towards you in high school, it's one of my biggest regrets."

"You expect me to believe that?"

She doesn't look taken aback, she was expecting this to be my reaction, "I'm being sincere, and while you claim that I'm the reason you're this way, well…you're the reason I'm this way," she gestures around the office.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, somehow I'm lounging back, my feet resting on the coffee table in front of me.

"I figured today we could spend talking about me, let you know who I am, hopefully let you see that I'm not the same person that I was in high school."

"You just want to talk about yourself," I roll my eyes.

"I don't like talking about myself, which is why I listen to other people. But I think this will be beneficial to you, and I'm willing to put aside my insecurities for that."

"Insecurities? Please, like what?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and resting my head back.

Damn this couch.

She laughs to herself, "Let's start with something a little more simple."

She wants simple?

"Fine, why were you a bitch to me?" I ask.

"That wasn't what I had in mind when I said simple."

"Fine, how did you get to New York?"

I've managed to get over the shock that she's in New York and have now moved towards curiosity. This is my city, it always has been.

"Well after we graduated from school, I was accepted into Ohio State. I'd never given much thought as to what I wanted to study, so I was undecided for a year."

"What changed?" I find myself asking, not because I was interested or anything.

"Well priorities fell into place and my roommate was a Psychology major, she had a passion for it and it rubbed off on me."

"Classic Quinn Fabray conforming story," I roll my eyes

She ignores me, "I declared my major and I fell in love with it, it made me feel good. Much better than tearing people down. I interned at a few places, as part of my requirement to graduate. I took summer and winter courses and was able to graduate a year early. I realized the type of psychological and emotional damage that I put people through and I hated myself. It made me sick to my stomach to hear stories or read case studies about people that had someone like me in their life at one point. Not all of my patients have the same story but that's how I started."

I stay silent.

"And as for New York, I did my Graduate and Doctorate work here and I guess I just got lucky with the rest," she finishes.

"Fairy tale," I quip, "Why did you choose New York?" I reiterate my question.

"I just told you."

"No, you told me that you ended up here, why did you choose New York for your grad?" I ask again.

If she gives me some cheesy bullshit response I'm literally going to deck her in the face.

"Oh, um.." she's stuttering, I think I struck something within her, "It just seemed like a better place than Lima," she tells me.

"You've got that right."

"Do you want to hear about how everyone else is?" she asks after some silence.

"You still talk to them?" I ask.

I think my shock comes off as disgusted. Sometimes I confuse the two.

"Of course, I talk to at least one of them every day," she says, somewhat proudly.

Of course, Quinn Fabray, who had millions of friends in high school, has no trouble staying in touch after all these years. It just makes me hate her even more.

"Are they all pathetically living in Lima still?"

She laughs, "Finn is the only one still in Lima, he helps Mr. Schuester with the glee club, I saw him last year when the kids came for Nationals, you'd be really proud of them now," she says with a hint of delight and some of that pride that she thinks I should feel.

I resist the urge to vomit.

"Kurt lives in the city too, he owns a boutique. Santana and Brittany live just outside the city in Connecticut…together."

I choke on air, "They're together?"

She rolls her eyes, "Finally, it's back and forth with those two," she comments, "Mercedes is in Los Angeles, she sings. Tina is married already and lives outside the City, I haven't talked to Artie in years but last I heard he was living with his dad in Texas. And Noah, he's a piece of work."

"What's he doing?" I find myself asking, I always did have a soft spot for the boy.

"What isn't he doing?" she laughs softly, "He lives in New Jersey with his girlfriend of 3 years."

"Wow."

Noah Puckerman in a stable relationship? Brittany and Santana admitting their feelings? Quinn Fabray apologizing? Kurt owning a boutique? Okay, well that one was kind of easy to predict. Regardless, Hell has surely frozen.

"I know, it's nice to be able to have people you know around you."

"Yeah," I trail off, I wouldn't know what that feels like. My closest friend besides my assistant is Jesse St. James and that doesn't say much, he's the only one that understands what I go through, he's the only one who actually knows me.

"And Rachel Berry, she's probably been the most successful out of all of us," she gives me a coy smile.

I grunt laugh, it's kind of a weird sound.

"Everyone's really proud of you, Rachel," she tells me.

I scoff this time, "Yeah right."

"I mean it, I think every time we get together we talk about how well you're doing."

"I'll be sure to send them autographs."

She shakes her head and looks down, "You know, just because you hate me, doesn't mean that you should hate them too. They were your friends and they miss you. I know Tina does, even Kurt."

I find that hard to believe, but my heart aches at the mention of Tina, she was my only true friend in High School.

I look away from her eyes and bite my lower lip.

"Well they probably think I'm a heartless bitch now so what's the difference?"

She laughs again, "Oh c'mon, they don't buy into that stuff… Diva, yes. But not all those other rumors."

I feel my eyes begin to sting with tears; I wish I had my sunglasses on.

"I'm sure they're all getting a kick out of the fact that you're my Shrink now," I comment rather bitterly.

The thought of them all getting together for dinner and having a few laughs at my expense makes me sick.

"They actually have no idea."

"I find that hard to believe, Kurt's a bigger gossip than the Inquirer."

I could see him selling tips to the reporters about me in a heartbeat. Making sure to give himself credit for giving me a makeover in high school. He'd claim it was _him_ that taught me everything I know about fashion now.

"You're right he is, he actually asked me if I heard about your falling out."

"What'd you say?"

"I told him that I wished I could help you," she said thoughtfully, "He doesn't know that I'm actually trying to."

"Hm, you mean being paid to."

"Not everything is about the money, Rachel," she replies, almost irritated.

"Yes well, money buys happiness so it should be."

"You're happy?" she asks after a few seconds, she's tracing her fingertips across the back of the couch.

"Of course, I have everything I could ever want in the palm of my hand," I tell her.

She nods.

"Do you have any more questions for me?" when I stay silent she presses on, "Okay, I think now is a good time for you to tell me how it is you got here, what have you been up to since you graduated from High School?"

"Can't you just like pick up a magazine or Google me?" I ask

"Where's the fun in that? I want to hear it from you."

"Fine," I slouch back in order to get more comfortable, I close my eyes, "I went to NYU, Musical Theatre with an emphasis on Vocal Performance. I waitressed at a bar my Sophomore year and every Friday night they had open mic nights, I started singing, soon I was their headliner. I auditioned for a few off-Broadway plays throughout college, I got a few parts. After I graduated, I auditioned for a musical revival Broadway role and I got it. My career kind of took off from there, I was offered a record deal, and I recorded an album, which lead to two more. I've had one or two movie parts, a few spokesperson gigs, my concerts sell out in 60 seconds and yet I'm still the most hated person in Hollywood."

"Why do you think you're the most hated person?" she asks, frowning at the mere thought of someone hating me it seems, she's quite the actress.

I shrug, "I sold out I guess, people think I'm in it for all the wrong reasons. Parents don't think I'm a good role model, I didn't look as good this year as I did last year at the Grammys so I _must_ be a drug addict, I'm photographed with different people so I _must_ be a slut, I get tired from running around trying to please people so I _must_ be a diva. Same old bullshit, I'm used to it now."

"I think you assume that people automatically think the worst of you," she tells me, as if I care.

"Don't they?"

"I don't think so, and I think you're scared to show them who you really are underneath because they won't be receptive of you."

"Why would they be?"

"I think that's a question for you to answer."

She's the therapist, shouldn't she be answering these questions? I mumble incoherent words under my breath and slouch further.

"I don't like you very much," I tell her.

Her soft laugh practically lulls me to sleep, I need more coffee.

"Not a lot of people do."

"What happened to the receptionist?" I ask after a few minutes of silence.

I feel her shift, "What receptionist?"

She's playing dumb and I'm getting impatient.

"The rude one from Monday, where is she?"

"Oh um," she shuffles again, "I fired her, she wasn't appropriate and that wasn't the first time I've had to speak to her about her mannerisms."

In high school Quinn would just make those who pissed her off run endless laps around the football field, now she can just fire them. The world will never be safe from her.

"Oh. Did she have a grudge against me?"

Quinn looks like she's debating something in her head, "Kind of. I didn't want her to make you uncomfortable," she says carefully.

Why the hell would _I _be uncomfortable around a receptionist?

"What do you mean?" I ask, tilting my head further to see her.

She's actually blushing, "Well it seems that the two of you have a history together."

"What? Did she tell you that?"

I didn't think it was possible but she's blushing further, "Yes, in quite vivid detail."

I'm so confused.

"It seems that you slept with her one night."

My eyes go wide. I knew that I've seen her before, she looked different but now that I know where she's from I'm ashamed of myself for not realizing it sooner. I've never allowed my personal and public life to cross like this, I used to be careful, but how could I have prevented something as this. It was completely out of my hands.

"I um, it's not what you think. Whatever she told you."

Her cheeks are still a tad crimson, "I hold no judgments, but you can see as to why I made the decision to release her."

I don't know why I'm affected by this so much; it's not as if I haven't heard the rumors regarding my sexuality. People speculate every aspect of my life and my orientation doesn't appear to be off limits. Which is why Tristan, 'my boyfriend', has been in my life for over a year now. I slip up sometimes, more often than I'd like to admit to and so far it hasn't had horrible repercussions. It's different now, someone from my past learning the truth. I swallow.

"Is it okay if we end early today?" I ask, "I have a flight in 2 hours that I need to prepare for," I tell her glancing at my watch.

I can tell that she's embarrassed by how the conversation turned but she doesn't press for once; she stands and struggles to get her heels back on before walking over to her desk.

"Of course. Normally I give my patients an assignment every few sessions, and I think this will be appropriate for you over the weekend," She picks up a marble notebook and hands it to me.

I open it and flip through it, it's blank.

"This is your journal, when you need to write down something, you should. And also, a lot of the assignments are somewhat written."

"So what's my assignment, Doctor?"

It feels weird rolling off my tongue but I notice the subtle cringe that Quinn tries to hide and I've found my new nickname for her.

"I want you to pick some occurrences out of your weekend, conversations with people perhaps. I want you to write down how you responded or reacted. Then I want you to write down how the old Rachel Berry would act or respond, the one from high school. Be truthful," she reminds me.

"Easy enough."

"It may be, the hard part is seeing the difference between the two Rachel Berrys."

I nod.

"Can you do the same thing?" I ask

"I'm sorry?"

"If I have to do this then I think you should have to do it."

"Will it make you actually do it?"

Doubtful. I don't have time for petty nonsense like this. I haven't written anything other than lyrics in over a year. That's what an assistant is for.

"If you do it than yes I'll consider it," I lie.

"Okay then, I suppose I can do this assignment as well. I'll write down how I responded and how I would have in High School."

Yeah, I don't really care. I'm getting restless.

"Can I go now?" I ask bitterly.

"Yes, you're free to leave. Have a nice weekend; I'll see you on Monday."

I turn on my heel, making sure to grab my sunglasses this time. I put them on and hastily leave the room with my marble notebook.

The door slams when I leave and I don't make eye contact with the new receptionist. The car is waiting for me by the time I get down the stairs; I once again opted for them instead of the elevator.

Lauren is waiting for me when I get down to the street, she hangs up the phone a moment later.

"Bearable today?" she asks as she slides in after me

"What did I tell you about my damn business?" I snap at her.

She shrinks back into her seat. I see her face fall and the guilt pours through me. Normally I push it aside but the weight of the notebook in my lap prevents me from doing that.

I sigh, "Sorry, do you have a pen I can borrow?" her face picks up a little and she immediately hands me the pen that's in her hand without hesitation.

I open the marble notebook and begin writing.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm staring at my watch, I have been for the past few minutes, the ticking is driving me crazy but I can't stop looking at it. I look towards the receptionist; she only gives me a sad smile. I roll my eyes, it doesn't matter she can't see them anyway.

I huff loudly and continue to bounce my leg up and down like I do when I'm getting restless. I do not have the patience this morning.

Finally the office door opens and a woman walks out with her eyes downcast, she has a tissue in her hand.

"You have my emergency number if you need anything," Quinn tells the lady softly, slowly running her hand up and down her back, as if to comfort her.

She sniffles a bit and walks by me.

Quinn watches her walk away before she looks at me, she gestures into her office before walking in. I make a production of getting up and throwing the magazine onto the coffee table, the door slams behind me and I see Quinn wince at the sound.

"I don't appreciate being told to wait for 15 minutes," I tell her.

"I apologize, I do have other patients you know," she replies as I plop onto the couch.

God, she's only sad a few words and I already want to duct tape her mouth shut.

"Stop calling me your patient," I snap.

"What would you like me to call you?" she asks as she swivels in her desk chair.

"I don't care, you're pretty creative in that department," I tell her coldly.

She doesn't say anything and I realize that she's still staring into my eyes, even behind my sunglasses.

I huff and throw them onto the table.

She stands, "Rough weekend?" she asks as she circles to the front of the desk.

_Rough_ was an understatement.

"You wouldn't know the meaning."

She reaches behind her and pulls out a tabloid with my face plastered on the front of it.

She blindly flips through it, "I guess not," she shrugs easily.

I tense when she settles on the page; I've already had to hear about it 4 times since I woke up this morning.

"Rachel Berry seen here in front of Crown Bar in Los Angeles on Saturday Night. The diva was acting her usual self after photographers asked her a few questions regarding her upcoming movie role, Princess Rachel flipped off photographers and began throwing a hissy fit until bar security had to escort her to her car," Quinn finishes reading and I roll my eyes.

"Thanks, I've heard all the versions already."

"So is it true?"

"Does it matter?"

Quinn stays silent as she's perched on the end of her desk. I huff.

"It's true but they neglected to list the questions and insults the photographers were shouting at me."

Quinn takes in my response and moves towards the couch, in the same fashion she has for the past two sessions. She faces me and rests her head on her hand as her elbow leans on the back of the couch.

"Was what they were saying really that bad?" she asks curiously.

I scoff, "Have someone shout all of your insecurities at you with hundreds of flashes in your face while you have a horrible migraine and have been awake for nearly 20 hours."

She looks sympathetic to my situation. I remind myself she's being paid to look that way.

"It was like high school with cameras and sleep deprivation," I add as an afterthought.

"Had I known—"

She doesn't get to do this, not today.

"You did know," I bite back, "You knew _exactly_ what you were doing. At least these assholes don't know me or spend time with me. We were in each other's lives for almost 3 years and you saw how it affected me, I wasn't that good of an actress back then."

I _was_ that good of an actress and it still showed.

"I was stupid."

"That's a pathetic excuse," I mumble.

"I know."

"I thought you would have changed after you got pregnant and gave up your child, but you just went back to the cold head cheerleader."

She takes a few seconds for my words to sink in, maybe she feels genuinely sorry, or maybe she's reliving her glory days.

"It was all I'd ever known."

I roll my eyes as I lean my head back, crossing my arms over my chest. I regret never learning how to fall asleep with my eyes open, the skill would come in handy almost every session, I'm sure.

"Well you'll forgive me if I'm reluctant to believe that you're someone I can trust now. You may have the rest of the Glee kids fooled but I don't think for a second that you wouldn't put yourself before someone else if it came down to it."

I don't even _have_ to think about it, I know that she would put herself before anything.

"I put my baby before myself," she offers softly, as if that gives her a free pass or something.

Low blow, Fabray. Low blow.

She can't possibly know how long of a fuse she's just lit; she's going to find out soon enough. I almost feel bad about how blindsided she's about to be. Almost.

"Yeah, so that you could rejoin the Cheerios and hope that your parents would love you again. You would have been a fine mother; you were just selfish and wanted your life back."

"Was there a compliment somewhere in there?"

There's a hint of a smile on her lips. She's amused. If I could bitch slap her and still avoid the assault charge, it would have been done already. Something tells me that my words are about to sting her far worse than any lingering hand print across her cheek.

"Must be a warm feeling you get when you think about your baby with someone that couldn't even love her first born."

She recoils, "We can talk about _anything_ your heart desires, but _she_ is off limits."

"Who, Beth? Why not? She is my step-sister after all and, if I can recall correctly, you brought her up."

I find humor in the fact that Beth is somehow related to me and I'm sure it drives Quinn up the wall thinking about it.

"Please."

Pleading looks different on Quinn Fabray than I imagined it would. She looks a little pathetic, and her eyes have never been this shiny. Suddenly I wish that Quinn would treat me like a normal _patient_, I wonder if the videotaped sessions could have been purchased.

"Do you do family therapy as well? Maybe we can have a family reunion."

I chuckle at the thought of what a train wreck that would be.

"Is that what you're getting at? This isn't about me; this is about Shelby's abandonment of you, isn't it?"

"I don't know, is it Doctor? I'm merely just expressing my feelings."

I don't have to look at her to feel her eyes narrow into slits. My lazy grin makes me feel like the Cheshire cat, I feel evil and all kinds of ruthless. Revenge has never felt sweeter.

She takes her time before coming up with some educated response that might impress some people but it causes me to yawn.

"It seems to me that you're using the child as a scapegoat for how your own mother treated you."

Original analysis, Doc. I could use this damn couch as a scapegoat for how my mother treated me. I chuckle out loud when I imagine myself pulling a Tom Cruise on her perfectly white sofa. The idea turns into serious plotting when I realize that she might just medicate me if I showed her how crazy I could be. Maybe this entire experience would be much more bearable with a few Xanax pumping through me.

"If you say so, but you know just as well as I do what it feels like to have a parent turn their back on you," I finally reply, deciding to humor her. Let's see where this takes us.

And as for my original eye study; I stand corrected, her eyes aren't shiny. They're wet.

And I see we've struck a nerve.

"My father was cruel and narrow-minded but I'm _nothing_ like that man."

I beg to differ.

"Aren't you? You abandoned Beth just as your father abandoned you. How's that for a psycho-analysis, Doc? I'm ready for my doctorate degree, don't you think?"

"I think this is you trying to get back at me, or you're hoping to get a rise out of me. This has nothing to do with her."

Maybe. Actually, she's more wrong than she is right. This has _everything_ to do with that child, just not for the reasons Dr. Fabray is assuming. Once again, I decide to humor her. Makes me feel as if she's earning her paycheck.

"She got everything I never had," I tell her, it's surprisingly easy to act like a jealous sibling.

I wonder how I would have fared if I had to share the spotlight with a sister in real life while I was growing up.

She scoffs, "So you resent a 10 year old that had no control over a situation she was put in?"

"No, I resent _you_."

"Why's that?"

Oh Doc, let me count the ways. I wish I trusted Lauren enough to keep track of my reasons for hating Quinn Fabray, it would make this recap that much easier for the both of us. And it might take up less time if I could just list the reasons from a piece of paper.

"Well, putting aside the fact that you tortured me relentlessly in high school, you somehow managed to take the closest resemblance of a mother I had away from me so that your mistake could have a life that you clearly didn't _feel_ like giving her."

"_She_ is not a mistake."

I didn't think so either. But I can't help but pry now that I hear the shakiness in her voice.

"So you and Noah discussed her conception while you were dating his best friend? Funny, I don't remember it happening that way."

"What happened between Noah and I should have never happened, yes, you're right. But I never once regretted bringing her into this world, and you'll _never_ hear me refer to her as a mistake."

Good answer. If only I still cared about gold stars. We could have added one to her chart. I bet she's a chart person, what therapist doesn't get off on the thought of a clean and crisp chart that cripples someone's emotional stability and makes people second guess themselves.

"So you don't regret giving her up either? Is that what you're saying?"

"Rachel, I'm really trying here."

I'll give her that. She's really trying, but she's trying harder to avoid the name of her daughter and it's about as obvious as the scripted _B_ that's on her left wrist. I wonder if she realizes that she's touched it 10 times in the past few minutes. A testament to how bored I am.

"You're going to have to try a lot harder than you have been," I tell her as I trail my eyes from her wrist to her eyes.

"What would it prove to you?" she asks with a bit of fire. Do I see Sue Sylvester's minion in there somewhere?

I shrug, "Just getting a good grasp on what kind of person you are now," I decide at that moment to act indifferent by studying my cuticles, Lauren needs to schedule an appointment for me, "You seem like the same selfish bitch I knew in High School," the nonchalance behind my voice frightens me a tad, I wonder if she's scared at the person she's made me become.

"I don't regret bringing her into this world like I said, but I do regret giving up that child every day of my life, I knew how selfish I _was_ and I wanted to keep her more than anything. I had to give her away because I got too attached. She deserved someone that would treat her in ways I never could at that age. She was better off getting the hell away from me and whatever dreamland Puck and I thought we could live in."

I've had about enough of hearing her play the victim. I'm the only one that gets to milk the _victim_ card around here.

"Oh, you're so full of shit."

"Excuse me?"

Her head tilts, it's kind of endearing, and now I kind of feel bad for giving her such a hard time. The show must go on. Chin up, Rachel. You need to be defiant.

"You can't even say her name," I finally stop skating around the noticeable and very much hurtful truth.

"Christ Rachel, because it's too damn painful!"

"What is? Giving up the only thing that your cold heart was capable of loving or it's too painful to admit that deep down you're still no better than your father?"

I crossed a line. Maybe three. But it's the only way to get her to see what she's missing out on. I'm not doing this for her either; I'm doing this for her daughter.

"And who the hell are you to judge my motives on possibly the hardest decision of my life? If anyone has a cold heart, it's you. No wonder your mother wanted nothing to do with you."

"Ahh, there's my girl. I've missed you," I give her a smile that could give someone the chills.

It was only a matter of time before she resurfaced, and granted I provoked her. I refuse to take what she said to heart, at least not right now. And she looks remorseful at least at her unprofessional outburst.

"Does this make you happy? To get the result you've been wanting all along? Are you gaining anything from this right now?" she wipes something from her eye before I can confirm whether or not it was a tear.

"Do you want to know the _real_ reason I resent you, Quinn? Like honestly?" I lean forward, almost as if I'm about to tell her a colossal secret, and magnetically she leans forward as well in anticipation, "It's because under your fake exterior you still don't give a damn about anyone but yourself."

"You've said this already," she backs up, thinking that she's escaped a long winded rant from me. She has no idea.

"And I'll continue to remind you until you get your pretty little head out of your ass and respond to your daughter's letters."

"How did you—"

"You know, I may be the biggest bitch in Hollywood but you were right the other day, it _is_ a mask, and it's so people won't hurt the _real _me. I'll never let them see that vulnerable girl from High school that took and still takes every critique to heart and would rather tell someone off than let them get too close. But when a 10 year old writes to me and calls me her older sister, when she wants nothing more than to meet _me_, and despite every horrible thing she's heard; tells me that she's proud of who I am, I couldn't drop what I was doing fast enough in order to meet that little girl. Who, by the way, is nothing like the mother that she's desperately awaiting acknowledgment from."

"How dare you—"

She's right. How dare I. My rage blackouts tend to get me into more trouble than I care to confess to but I'm too far past the point of return. She'll just think I'm a bitch if I stop now, I'd rather finish and let her think I'm a bitch with a point.

"No, how dare _you_. Do you know how hard it was for me to explain to a ten year old how much her real mother loves her. Didn't you learn anything from when Shelby came back into my life during High School? Didn't you see how badly it crushed me to know that my mother was within reach but wouldn't be the person I needed her to be? You know Beth has a picture of you in her pillowcase? She still has her hospital blanket too. She said that she's written you almost once a month and she's yet to hear from you. Christ, she has the mother I never had and I took the first flight out to meet her. Please tell me what has you _so_ busy that you can't write a letter, are you afraid she won't be proud of you? That she'll be disappointed? Did she write you and tell you how she gets picked on at school because she likes to sing and dresses differently than the others? Because she does, now I can't imagine someone who would pick on someone for those reasons, can you?"

"That's enough"

"She's your—"

Quinn's up before I can blink and for a second I'm afraid. Her face is red; her eyes are wide and beady.

"She's not my daughter! She's—she's Shelby's daughter," She finishes softly, her muscles relaxing, "I gave away my daughter when I was 16 and I have no right to be in her life."

"It's not like she's just going to start calling you Mommy; she just wants to get to know you. She wants to know why you named her Beth, she wants to know if you like to sing just as much as she does, she wants to know what her real grandparents are like. She just wants to know if you have the same things in common."

"I can't."

"What are you so afraid of? Like, honestly?"

"I just—I can't. I'm sorry, Rachel. I think it would be best if we ended today's session now"

She hastily wipes at her cheeks before the tears could make their presence known.

I want to press on but I know that if I push her any further, there's a good chance that she would jump out of her 19th floor window. I don't want that blood on my hands; it's bad for my image.

I stand wordlessly. I think about giving her some kind of hope, letting her have some piece of her daughter even if she doesn't want it. Deep down I'm hoping that she'll come to her senses and realize how much time she's wasted on uncertainty. I know what she's afraid of; it's the same thing I was afraid of when I would daydream about meeting my mother one day. I know for a fact, it's the same thing Beth daydreams about. And _she's_ ultimately the reason I decide to open my mouth.

"She loves you, Quinn. I know you're scared that she'll hate you for not being in her life sooner but I can tell you, there isn't a hateful bone in her body. She does have a glare that would put yours to shame though," I shrug, with my hand on the door knob, about to make an exit, "And if you've changed as much as you claim you have, well then I think you're hurting her more by staying away."

I see the receptionist looking at me, probably confused as to why I'm already done with the session, and I give her a ghost of a smile. She practically drops her coffee mug as I walk passed her. I look at the stairs and my calves feel like they're burning from the rigorous workout they were just under for nearly 30 minutes. Bouncing my leg has always been a tough habit to break. I notice that the elevator is already heading down, there's no harm in waiting a few extra seconds today. The odds of Quinn coming out after me this time are about the same as Kurt announcing he was actually straight.

"Rachel, wait."

Of course.

I turn around and tap my index finger on my arm as it crosses with the other one over my chest, I'm not amused. Somehow Quinn managed to surpass all expectations and have me question Kurt's sexuality at the same time as I wait for her to catch up to me. If only the elevator door would open sooner. Quinn's eyes were suddenly more bloodshot than a high college student shooting a Visine commercial after saying up for 3 days in a row.

"What do you want?" I ask

"I just wanted to say thank you."

I survey her, she's out of breath. Naturally. I give her one firm nod as the elevator dings.

I feel like I haven't been dramatic enough today. I step into the empty elevator and press the Lobby button.

The buildup is crucial.

"I didn't do it for you," I tell her.

Her eyes close as she looks down just as the space between the elevator doors becomes smaller and smaller. She looked too vulnerable for me to stick around and comfort her, she could probably use the time alone anyway. Besides, let's not forget she technically was the one to kick me out of her office today.

I'd be lying if I said that the entire half an hour wasn't a roller coaster ride of emotions, in fact, it was more taxing than any role I'd ever had to play, even if I wasn't acting for once. But no one would ever know just how much it affected me because behind these sunglasses, I was safe.

I could breathe confidence again.

And I wasn't the vulnerable Rachel Berry that Quinn Fabray took advantage of all those years ago.


	4. Chapter 4

"What the fuck do you mean she cancelled our session today?" I scream from my bedroom.

I _was _in the middle of putting on a shirt when Lauren's voice traveled down the hallway and into my open bedroom.

"I just got off the phone with her receptionist; she's cancelled your appointment today."

She yells from the living room area. I hastily throw the shirt on and walk down the hallway to meet her.

"Just mine?"

"I don't know, Miss Berry."

How could she not know? Lauren knows everything.

"Why the hell not? Why didn't you ask?"

She's better than this.

She clears her throat, "I did, there seems to be a confidentiality clause and she wouldn't—"

I grab the phone from Lauren's hand, redialing the last number she called.

"Dr. Fabray's office, this is Er—"

"This is Rachel Berry."

"Miss Berry! How are you?"

Ohh no. No time for pleasantries today Erin.

"Pissed. Where the hell is Fabray?"

"I'm sorry but she's not in the building," she stutters out.

Likely story.

"Where is she?" I demand

"I'm afraid I don't know."

Not only am I beauty but I'm brains too.

"Give me her cell phone number."

"I'm afraid I don't have that."

Of course you don't. Why would you? It's not like you're her receptionist or anything.

"Give me the emergency number that she gives to the crazy patients"

I know she has one of those, and while I'm not one of the crazies—yet—I'm willing to take on the label for the afternoon so I can give Fabray a piece of my mind.

"I'm afraid—"

"Oh, you're _gonna_ have a reason to be afraid if you don't give me what I want"

The phone is yanked from my hand before I can really lay into the receptionist.

"My apologies, we'll see you on Friday," my assistant says into the phone sweetly, I start to pace the hardwood flooring, mumbling obscenities, "Ah, I see. Yes, thank you very much. Miss Berry will be very grateful to you Erin, yes of course, goodbye."

Lauren hangs up the phone and throws it into her bag. Probably a smart move on her part.

"If you tell me that she's cancelled our Friday session too, I'm going to lose my mind," I tell her as I whirl around.

Lauren rolls her eyes, as if I'm being dramatic. She has no idea how dramatic I can be, "She cancelled all of yesterdays sessions as well, you're not the only one."

"Is this supposed to make me feel better?"

"Doesn't it?" she's got a hint of amusement behind her voice.

I ignore her.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now? I clear my schedule for an hour every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for her head-shrinking ways," I fall back onto the couch.

Lauren's phone chimes and she's too busy doing her job to pay attention to me.

"This couch is uncomfortable," I comment. It doesn't matter, she's not listening.

Lauren looks up from her phone, "I have a meeting with your publicist in 10, do you want to come along?"

I stare blankly at her, was she being serious? "Does it look like I want to go?"

She chuckles to herself, she knows I hate my publicist, but it was nice of her to offer, I guess.

"Well you need to let me know what you're going to be doing so I know how to reach you."

"You're not my keeper."

She laughs again, "I kind of am."

"Stop answering me, everything I say is rhetorical."

She shakes her head before she answers the phone call that's coming through. She sure is busy.

I start to twiddle my thumbs because that's how bored I am. The remote is too far away for me to reach, and going to this meeting between Lauren and my publicist is out of the question. My publicist makes me want to go swimming in barbwire and lemon juice. She's awful.

This news that Quinn cancelled our session has me enraged. Since when is she the one that gets to call the shots? I could go for a run to blow off some steam but then I'd have to deal with the burly and slow moving bodyguards that insist on following me everywhere just in case I decide to physically assault another photographer. Ironically, I'm so mad that I—for once—_want_ to lash out to a therapist. That idea seems like a good one, I should have two Psychologists, should one of them piss me off and I need to vent to someone about it.

"Lauren!" I scream, "Where is that marble notebook?"

She stares blankly at me for a few seconds, my patience is wearing thin.

"Not rhetorical," I state.

"It's on your nightstand" she answers, before turning towards the door, "I'm leaving now, I'll be back in an hour, please stay out of trouble."

"Please stay out of trouble" I mock her as she closes the door.

Quinn Fabray wants me to reconnect with my high school self; well she's getting a true Rachel Berry strongly worded letter with new Rachel's hateful vocabulary.

* * *

"Is there someone in there with her?" I ask as I storm passed the receptionist desk.

Erin begins to stand to greet me but I'm long gone.

"I don't believe so," she attempts to call out as I open the door to the office in a haste.

Quinn is there, standing near the window and looking out over the city. She does have a nice view, if you consider nice views to be buildings.

She turns around to greet me.

"Just be quiet," I demand.

Her mouth snaps shut and she moves from the window.

"I have something I want to say," I tell her, she nods with an amused expression as I pull out the marble notebook.

"Go on," she gestures. I think she's surprised, and a little happy that I'm actually using her book.

I clear my throat and begin to read the words that I wrote down on Wednesday, "Quinn Fabray, how dare you cancel today's session. Do you have any idea who I am? My time is valuable and precious and it's certainly worth more than you consider it worth. You should be lucky that I take time out of my demanding day to come and see you. I don't appreciate being the last to find things out, I get that enough from the people on my staff. You at least could have called me to tell me that you weren't going to be having our session, and what's this about cancelling Tuesday's sessions? If you're sick, I'm going to be seriously upset that I was unaware and unprepared for Monday's session. I could have arranged to have a gas mask or some kind of vaccine before I went to that office. If you're not sick, what the fuck? My memory is failing me at this moment in time, I don't remember holding a grudge against you when I woke up this morning but I can't remember what we discussed on Monday. We were talking about the magazine and insecurities, and then we began talking about Beth. Ah, yes. Now I remember. Quinn Fabray, if I find out that you cancelled our session because you were mad that I brought up Beth, you'll be in a world of trouble. I might be less inclined to kick your ass if I find out that you spoke to your daughter, or even if you gave serious thought to what I said earlier in the week. Even if it was wrong of me to bring it up like that. Regardless of your reasoning behind cancelling the session, it was rude," I finished reading and looked up to see Quinn with a smirk on her lips. "Oh wait, there's more. It says that if you keep smirking like that, I'm going to slap it off of you," I finish before throwing the book towards the general area of the couch, missing it by a landslide.

"Did I sense that you were slightly worried about my wellbeing in there?" she asks.

I ignore her. But I can't ignore the fact that she now has a coat on.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Would you like to go for a walk today?"

"A walk?" I deadpan.

She shrugs, pulling her hair out of the coat.

"I like to change things up sometimes; we could get lunch or something after."

She looks unsure and I've never seen Quinn Fabray look more unsure in her life.

"Why would I want to get lunch with you?"

"Well since you were so _obviously_ upset that I cancelled Wednesday's session, we can have it today."

Oh, she must have misunderstood my letter.

"That's not how this works. I'm not about to endure two hours of you because you couldn't handle my truthful words on Monday."

"Fine, we don't have to get lunch," she begins walking towards the door, "I'm going for a walk; you can join me if you'd like, or you can sit in here for an hour and write in your journal."

I think she's making a joke but I can't be sure. I'm going to treat it as a joke because I need a reason to spite her even more.

"Erin, you can leave after you finish filing everything. See you Monday," I hear her in the lobby.

I walk out after her silently. She has a small smile on her lips as I reach the elevator.

"You decided to join me?" she asks as the elevator door opens, she doesn't seem surprised. Like she knew I'd join her all along.

"Only because I can wear my sunglasses and there is nothing you can do about it," I reply.

She nods.

I lean up against the gold railing and listen to the piano playing that's coming through the speakers. Normally I would be mad that it's the same damn song on loop but because I've been writing lyrics in my head that go in sync with the song, I welcome it.

"Are you talking to yourself?" she asks as the floor dings.

"Shut up."

I wasn't talking to myself, I was singing to myself.

"Nice Mom jeans," I fire before she can further inquire about my singing, it makes me feel vulnerable when people ask about the lyrics I write that aren't supposed to be heard by others.

She looks down, "Mom jeans?"

They are nowhere near Mom jeans, in fact I've never seen jeans look so good on someone but she'll never know that.

I realize the bigger picture here, "Why are you wearing jeans anyway?"

"It's Friday, sometimes I dress down."

"That's unprofessional," I state but she lets it go.

We walk out of the building and I stay a few paces behind her.

She stops every once in a while and I have no choice but to walk next to her for a few strides before I slow down again.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"I'm keeping my distance," I tell her.

"Why?" she's fully stopped and instead of continuing on, I cut her a break and stop as well.

"You _really_ want to be seen with me? It's like a death sentence. Besides, if someone takes a photo of us, it's only a matter of time before they figure out who you are and that you're my shrink. You'll never escape it."

She rolls her eyes and grabs my arm, "I was aware of the risks before I asked you to go for a walk."

She pulls me along for a few steps, she drops my arm after she's sure that I'll stay in stride this time. In fact, she's also slowed down her walking to ensure that I'll have no choice but to keep up. I smile before I realize it and luckily she doesn't see it. People would normally rather have me walk behind them than with them.

"That was nice of you to let Erin have the rest of the day off."

It comes out before I can catch it. It's completely out of character for me, she knows it too.

She turns to face me, hoping to figure out if I'm being sincere or not. I _was_ being sincere but she can figure it out for herself if I was or not.

She blows some hot air out of her mouth in order to see her breath.

"There was no reason for her to stick around."

It's dead air between us as she looks around the sidewalk, occasionally smiling at people as they walk by, other times just walking silently by my side.

"You don't have any more patients?"

I'm genuinely curious and I wouldn't know the answer to the question, normally I'm long gone before her next session is supposed to start.

She smiles and turns to look at me, "I thought you didn't want to be referred to as a patient."

I roll my eyes but she wouldn't know. The luxury of sunglasses.

"Fine. You don't have any more sessions?"

She shakes her head, "Cancelled."

I want to ask if she cancelled her earlier sessions as well but I think I already know the answer.

We walk for a few more quiet minutes before I can't take it anymore.

"Why did you cancel all of your sessions this week?"

She takes a few long seconds to answer; if it had been someone on my staff I already would have demanded an answer already.

"I needed some time to deal with my own issues before I took on everyone else's."

That's fair. I'll give her that. There's still one question haunting me though.

"So why me?"

Her lips quirk, "You know the answer to that."

"I don't."

She doesn't answer and too much time passes for me to ask again without being a nuisance.

"I called her," she says as she sits on a park bench.

She doesn't have to specify who, I know who she called. She reached out to her daughter and my heart is beating wildly at her confession.

I take a seat next to her, "When?"

She sighs, "Monday night, I finally read all the letters she's sent me."

It's weird; I almost feel better knowing that she only just read them. In a way, it doesn't make her completely heartless.

"How did it go?" I find myself asking.

"Okay, I guess. I don't know. How is it supposed to go when you're talking to your daughter for the first time since the night you gave birth to her? It's been ten years," She says, as if I didn't remember.

Of course I remembered. Regionals. Sophomore year of high school, I made the mistake of staying to watch Vocal Adrenaline beat us. I've never regretted it more than when I met Beth, only wishing I could have held her when she was a newborn. Not that Quinn would have let me anywhere near her perfect baby.

"Was she excited?"

I was eternally grateful to Quinn's suggestion that we go for a walk today, had we been in her office, my sunglasses would be on the coffee table and she'd be able to see my eyes welling up with tears. I wonder if she anticipated that. The thought of Beth on the other end of that phone call almost has me breaking down in broad daylight. Words can't even express how excited she surely was.

"I think she stopped breathing at first, and then well she talked non-stop for 20 minutes," Quinn laughs as she runs a hand through her hair, I laugh with her, "It was hard, but I'm glad I did it."

"I'm proud of you," I tell her in a moment of rare honesty. It looks like she could use all the praise she could get.

"Thank you. She asked me to come visit her."

I feel like I'm on the edge of my seat.

"What did you say?"

"I told her that I'd have to see what my schedule looked like."

I frown. If she was able to cancel four days of sessions on the drop of a hat, surely she would be able to fly out for a long weekend.

"Do you want to?"

I know she does.

"More than anything, I just don't know if I should."

I slump back against the park bench.

"You know my thoughts on the matter."

"It's not that simple," she replies.

"You're making it that way."

"You're not the only one that put Lima in their rearview mirror, Rachel. It would just drudge up bad memories if I were to go back to Ohio."

For once I agree with her. Ohio is just filled with horrible memories that need to stay there. But I refuse to allow her to be like me, and to regret not going back.

"You're making excuses."

I would know because I've made the same excuses. She doesn't respond for quite a while. It's silent between us.

"Tell me about her," she says suddenly.

It's the quietest I've ever heard her speak.

"If I tell you about her, you have to promise that you'll reach out to her more, that you'll consider going to see her. You don't deserve to know about her unless you're going to make the effort to _actually_ be in her life."

"I will, God I will. I just need to know what she's like."

"She has your eyes," I start, it was the first thing I noticed after all, "She has wavy brown hair, and the last time I was there, she insisted I teach her how to braid it so she could pull it back. That's how your hair is in the picture she has of you. She's got a voice that threatens all the billboard number ones I have and will have, she's very musical and she's starting to take dance lessons. Which I can assure you, if I had been in her life sooner; she'd of been dancing before she was walking," Quinn chuckles as I think of some more things to tell her, at least to get her smiling more, "She has Noah's smirk, especially when she's doing something mischievous, like lying about finishing her homework. She'd rather practice singing than do school work. Her newest thing is putting her hands on her hips, especially when she's making a point. She's extremely eloquent but has no problem talking back to authority figures, she's one hell of a charmer when she wants something, she wears dresses to school and it's slightly terrifying."

"What is?"

"How much she reminds me of you."

Quinn gasps.

"Boys are all over her, too. She's quite the catch," I muse, "But don't worry, I assured her that the cootie rumor was true and she won't be accepting any of their lunch money offerings anytime soon. And she's been instructed to stay away from any boys that sport a Mohawk."

"Thank you, Rachel," She replies as she grabs for my hand, holding it firmly in hers.

She realizes what she's doing and instantly drops my hand.

"Sorry, I forgot that you don't show affection anymore," she replies sadly as she clasps her hands together to keep them occupied.

"We won't tell anyone," I reply before pulling her hand free and wrapping mine around it, "It's only because you look pathetic," I add before the moment completely chokes me with a heartwarming rope.

She smiles and relaxes into the back of the bench.

It's silent. So incredibly silent between us but for once it's kind of welcoming. Even as people pass us by, it's as if they're on mute. One particularly courageous dog walker allowed us to pet the dogs he was watching, and the way his eyes were raking over both of our bodies was unsettling. Even if we were both wearing jackets.

"Could he have been more obvious?" Quinn whispers once he's out of earshot.

"If he walks back this way, you have to give him your number."

"Um, no!" she giggles, "Why can't you be the one?"

"I'm charitable, but not _that_ charitable."

She laughs as I soak in the warmth of the sun before it hides behind another cloud.

"Ya know, Beth adores you. I'm starting to see why." She says playfully, causing me to turn to look at her.

"You mean…you—you don't already adore me?"

I still haven't lost my acting skills.

"I mean it, she talked about you nearly the entire time on the phone, I _should_ have been jealous."

"Old Quinn would have been," I comment.

"Old Quinn was stupid."

"So what's the difference between old and new Quinn then?" I ask, waiting for her to catch on out of the corner of my eye.

She thinks about it and I see the realization on her face, "Not funny."

She thought it was funny; her smile is evident of that.

"You're not nearly as bitter today as you are when we're in my office," she comments after even more silence.

I've noticed that too.

"I still resent you though."

"Then why are you smiling?" she asks.

I really do hate her.

"I'm not smiling, I have a nervous twitch."

"You know, it's okay to let your guard down every once and a while," she tells me.

I take some time to study the boots on my feet as they cross at my ankles. I consider her suggestion.

"That's how I get hurt."

She also takes some time to answer. The entire conversation is happening in slow motion.

"I wouldn't hurt you."

"I don't know that."

"I'm telling you that I won't," she replies almost instantly.

"A lot of people have told me that."

It's not that I'm bitter about it, it's that I'm _really_ bitter about it. This town could make you or break you and they certainly love to break you every chance they get after they make you.

"You're making good progress, you know, but we're going to have to talk about some of those things at some point if you're going to continue."

I chortle a laugh, "Is that your expert analysis, Doctor? You really think I've made progress?" I turn to look at her with a raise eyebrow, interested in what she has to say about this matter.

"Last Monday you couldn't even look me in the eye, now look at us," and she holds up our locked hands for extra emphasis, as if I already couldn't feel her palm burning into mine.

I turn away from her to watch a few joggers pass, "Well I'll start to tell you stuff when I start to trust you."

"What can I do to earn it?"

I shrug, "I don't know, no one has ever bothered."

She frowns and the moment is increasingly getting more serious, too serious for me.

"C'mon," I tug her as I stand up.

"Where are we going?"

"Lunch."

She smirks, "I thought you couldn't _possibly_ endure two hours with me."

She thinks she's funny. I hide my smile.

"You owe me for the cancellation and you're paying."

"Whatever you have to tell yourself, Rachel."

Her smile is wicked and it's unsettling. It's like she's aware of something that I'm not. I look down to see if I have toilet paper attached to the bottom of my shoe, there's nothing more mortifying than that.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I finally ask as we walk down the cobblestone pathway towards the café I have in mind. They have the best salads.

"I think you secretly like spending time with me," she sways, nudging into me in a rare moment of friendship.

I go to insult her or at least attempt to refute her statement.

She holds up her hand, "That's just my expert analysis, but what do I know, huh?"

You know a hell of a lot more than you think, Doc.


	5. Chapter 5

"I _really_ hate your couch."

She looks up and there's such an obvious smirk on her face. I can tell and I don't even have to waste my time in glancing over to her in order to confirm it, I can hear it in her voice. "It doesn't appear that way."

"Shut up, it's _so_ uncomfortable that I can't find a comfortable position."

My quick logic even astounds me. Maybe if the couch was more comfortable I'd be able to fall asleep and miss the remainder of our session. I toss and turn some more, hoping to find that _perfect_ position.

"But lying across it is suiting you just fine?"

She thinks she's being funny.

"So what else do you want to talk about today, Doc?"

She's silent for a few seconds, I'd be concerned but I'm more interested in deciding what I want to get for lunch in a little bit. Salad is always my go-to meal of choice but I'm feeling brave today, sinful even. Something fried. Yeah.

"You're in a good mood."

I did wake up a little on the cheery side this morning, a result of my stress free weekend. The fact that she can tell that I'm in a particularly good mood is unsettling. The only explanation is that she's installed cameras in my home. I bet there's a microphone somewhere in the fruit bowl, or maybe behind my headboard. That suspicious vase of flowers definitely has something to do with this. I wouldn't put it past her to put a tracking device on my cell phone. Lauren needs to be interrogated later. Because I'm pretty sure she already has cameras and microphones in my apartment, so she would have caught any mysterious activity going on. Yes, a grilling is in order.

"Rach?"

"I didn't get arrested this weekend and my face is not on one tabloid, it's a good morning," I give her a cheesy grin and she laughs.

"I see, so are we ever going to talk about last weekend's indiscretions?"

I would be naïve to believe that I could get through one good morning without someone or Quinn Fabray fucking it up. She's a bloodhound for all things that could possibly ruin my life. She can work a little bit for the information she wants.

I turn my head and rest my forearm on my forehead, "Have you gained my trust?"

She taps her finger to her chin. I study the action, it bothers me. Who taps their chin? It's _not_ endearing at all.

"I suppose not, especially since you left your marble notebook here."

I shoot straight up using the armrest as leverage. Whoa, slightly dizzy.

"You read it?"

"No. I didn't."

I sigh and throw myself back down on the couch, "What do you want to know?"

"What were the paparazzi shouting at you that made you react poorly in front of the cameras?"

I snag the stress ball that Quinn keeps on her coffee table and begin tossing it into the air as I stare at the ceiling. It _was_ an extremely nice morning. Any morning that I don't wake up to a phone call from my publicist berating me is a good morning. So good, in fact, that I went into the Starbucks with Lauren to pick out my own drink instead of just telling her what to get. I learned that she drinks a caramel macchiato.

"They called me fat, a terrible singer, a coke head, asked me when the baby was due, wanted to know if I had an eating disorder."

She giggles, I'm not sure if it's because their accusations are crazy or because she thinks that it's funny, like she did in high school. "That seems a little redundant."

She shakes her head, almost reprimanding the bad men that upset poor little Rachel Berry.

"They just wanted to get a rise out of me."

I've begun playing a game where I throw the ball as close as I can to the ceiling without it actually touching it. It's quite amusing.

"I guess they did what they wanted to accomplish."

I scoff, "That stuff doesn't really affect me anymore."

"So what set you off?"

"Seriously?" I ask, not taking my eyes off the ball as it barely touches the ceiling this time. So close.

This ought to be good. I can practically feel my devilish alter ego rubbing his hands together in delight. His name is Ray and he's evil. He enjoys things like this.

"Yeah."

"They asked me if I was screwing my therapist yet."

Quinn coughs and chokes a little bit on her coffee, I'm glad I timed it right. Her reaction was much more amusing than my stress ball game. Ray is pleased.

"I see."

"You okay?" I ask, momentarily halting my ball game to turn my head as she sits on the coffee table cross legged.

"I'm fine," she holds her hand to her throat, soothing the liquid down, "You just caught me off guard."

"Yeah, well so did they," I reply and toss the ball up again.

She sets the coffee down, "So why did that upset you? It was obviously a lie."

Obviously, Quinn.

"Because that kind of stuff is private and it just seemed like they crossed a line."

For once I don't feel irritated in having to yet again defend myself.

She nods silently; I catch the ball and rest it on my stomach.

"You're telling me that if people found out you were my Shrink, you wouldn't get a little frustrated if people assumed you were sleeping with me?"

She shakes her head no, ducking as she pulls a few strands of hair behind her ear. She's wearing it straight today, and it's in that side plait hairstyle from high school. She doesn't look like a therapist with a Doctorate, she looks like a seventeen year old kid with the rest of her life ahead of her.

I stare at her incredulously until she elaborates.

"I don't think anyone would assume we were sleeping together so the situation would be avoided."

She's crafty in her ways of reason. Almost _too_ crafty. Ray is also skeptical of everything.

"Well the paparazzi assumed."

"Do you honestly think that if they found out _I_ was your therapist that they'd still assume that?"

She has a point.

"Maybe," I shrug and begin tossing the ball again, "I _am_ a dime piece after all, they'd probably run a story where I seduced you and of course you couldn't ignore my persistent flirting and incessant charm."

"Have you always been this full of yourself?"

"Of course."

She laughs and nods, she agrees.

"I just find it hard to believe that people would assume we were sleeping together."

"Why are we still talking about this? Do you _want_ to sleep with me or something?" I ask and she's quiet for a second longer than I'm expecting her to be. I sit straight up, ball forgotten as it hits the couch on the way back down. "Oh my god, you totally do. This is like some kind of fantasy for you, isn't it? Freak."

"No, this isn't some kind of fantasy for me and I'm not a freak!" she tries to say seriously.

I don't miss her blatant avoidance of the real question I was asking. I cut her a break, she's already blushing enough to make the Devil jealous.

"You don't find me attractive? Everyone finds me attractive," I state, a little put out that she doesn't consider me to be good looking, I worked hard for this body. And no, I didn't pay for it, contrary to popular belief.

I just want to see her blush again.

"I didn't say that at all, you're putting words in my mouth," it looks like she's physically trying to back up, if she goes any further she's going to fall off the coffee table.

"So you _do_ find me attractive?"

I hide my smile at the ability I have to back her into a corner with my questions. I've got her trapped. Flustered Quinn is kind of fun to mess with.

"This isn't the path that I wanted this conversation to go in."

I smirk, "You're the one that started this conversation in the first place."

"Let's talk about something else, perhaps?" she clears her throat before reaching for her coffee cup.

"Why don't you think that people would assume I was banging you?"

She chokes again on her coffee and I may have been a bit blunt only to see her struggle with the hot liquid. I attempt to hide my smile but it's too wide to tame.

"Well because…" she falters.

"My sexuality has never been off limits before, in fact, they're more inclined to assume."

She studies me for a moment, I'm sure I just gave her gold in the psychology world. Therapists _love_ this kind of stuff, "And what _is_ your sexuality?"

Knew it.

"Undefined," kind of.

She furrows her eyebrows, she's honestly confused.

"Are you a math problem or something?"

I hope she was joking.

"No, but you're witty."

She's scratching her forehead now. She's a walking cliché.

"But, Jocelyn the old receptionist?" she asks.

"Was crazy," I finish for her.

"So you've only been with one woman?"

"Oh, god no," I gesture wildly with my hand.

She stares at me pensively, as if she's trying to figure it out just by looking at me. I lay back down and resume throwing the ball into the air as nonchalant as I possibly can.

I sigh, "On the record I'm extremely happy and in love with my boyfriend Tristan and have never even let my eyes stray towards someone else."

"And off the record?" she prods.

I think about it. I could most likely be sued.

"What is your patient to doctor confidentially clause?"

"I'm not even going to answer that question, Rachel."

"Fine," I breathe out, "We're both gay and use each other in the public eye."

"Wow, that's a big confession," Her eyes are slightly widened, only confirming her words.

"I'm supposed to be trusting you remember?"

She nods and there's a small smile, "You can," she says slowly.

"We'll see."

She's still sitting on the table Indian style, out of the corner of my eye, I can see her head and eyes following the ball as it rises and falls throughout the air.

"Is this the part of the session where you throw a bible at my head and drown me in holy water?" I ask, chuckling to myself over the image alone.

"What makes you say that?" she almost sounds hurt, but sometimes my ears deceive me.

I want to scoff, "You were a bigger catholic than the Pope in High School, and I still see the cross around your neck. You haven't completely lost your faith."

Her hand absently goes to her neck, running her fingers across the small silver Cross before she tucks it beneath her shirt. It reminds me of how she'd hold her stomach when she was pregnant with Beth.

"I also got knocked up in High School, as you so nicely put it our first session, and I've changed. Isn't that what I've been trying to tell you?"

"I wouldn't know, I tune you out most mornings," I crack a smile and turn to study her through squinted eyes, "Oh c'mon, that was funny."

She doesn't say anything but she has the remnants of a smirk.

"So how did getting knocked up change your Christ crusading ways?"

"Well, when you have a child living inside you for 9 months you start to see the error in your ways," she reasons, I guess it's valid.

"I recall you still being a bitch after you gave Beth away."

She winces, I was being careless.

"I can't explain why I was the way I was, but college really opened my eyes to a whole new world I guess."

"So you experimented in college?"

Her face flushes a deep red and her nervous laughter is a dead giveaway but I'll humor her and allow her to respond, "Excuse me? Experiment with what?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

I would have loved to have a clipboard in my hands in order to make an exaggerated check mark.

"You're assuming," she points out.

"I'm normally right in my assumptions," I reply proudly.

"You've yet to be right in _any_ of your assumptions thus far."

She actually has me on that one.

"Well I'm right about this," I finally sit up again and face her.

"You have absolutely no evidence."

I shrug, "How long have you and your boyfriend been dating?"

"I don't have a boyfriend," she answers.

MmHmm. Yes. I saw this.

"Oh, the last time you were on a date?"

She looks at me, determined to win this argument, "Last month, we went to this nice and quaint little restaurant in Chelsea."

Only someone as quaint as Quinn Fabray would describe something else as quaint.

I'm not buying it. Neither is Ray.

Maybe I _am_ crazy. Who seriously considers the thoughts of their alter ego?

I roll my eyes, "Last time you were on a date with a guy, Quinn."

"And what makes you think that I wasn't with a guy last month?"

"Chelsea? Please."

"What's wrong with Chelsea? I happen to live in Chelsea," she defends.

This is comical.

"Then you should know better than me that you did _not_ go on a date in Chelsea with a guy."

"This is all circumstantial," she waves off.

"If you're not gay now, you certainly dabbled in college. There's no way that you can sit across from me after finding out my sexual preference and not quote Leviticus to me, especially with your track record of hatred towards me"

There's just no way.

"You know Leviticus?"

She looks perplexed; I cross my arms over my chest.

"I'm half Jewish."

She should have known that, but then again, it's not like she ever took the time to learn things about me in high school. Although, when she had me for secret santa Junior year, she bought me argyle knee socks. All kinds too, like every color scheme imaginable. That's about the extent of which she knew me. Granted, it was probably the best present I'd received in all three years of Glee club traditions. And it even surpassed Finn's _thoughtful_ present one year of a picture of himself and a homemade coupon book of the sexual variety. He was a classy one, that kid. Come to think of it, the present he got me the following year was far more thoughtful, and a lot less like him. I must have been clouded by the gesture at the time to look at the logistics behind his decision to purchase me a new video camera for my weekly _youtube_ videos.

She shrugs, "Well I'd never heard of it until my father shouted it at me."

"Why would he—"

She waits for me to connect the dots, for real this time.

"Like I said last session, you weren't the only one that put Lima in their rearview mirror."

My hand comes up to cover my mouth, I'm truly shocked. Never in a million years would I have thought I was right in my assumption about her. I was just finding it entertaining to see her grow uncomfortable at the subject. Between trying to figure out Finn's complete one-eighty between Christmas presents and learning that Quinn was actually gay, it's a little too much for me to process.

"I had no idea."

She shrugs again and taps her nails on the table, "Why would you?"

"Does everyone else know?"

"Yeah," she runs a hand through her hair.

"And your patients?" I inquire, feeling desperate to know for some reason.

"I keep my work and private life separate."

"So you've never fooled around with one of your patients?" I wiggle my eyebrows.

"That's completely inappropriate and unprofessional."

"Lighten up, I was kidding."

To prove it, I throw the stress ball at her, she catches it with ease and begins squeezing the life out of it. 

"So not even your receptionist knows?" I ask.

She shakes her head no.

"Wow," I cross my arms and lean back into the couch, "High school makes so much more sense now."

"Why do you say that?"

I ignore her question and continue to relive high school with this new piece of knowledge. Sam always seemed like a bigger girl than Quinn, he sure had every insecurity that a girl had. And she had a beautiful cover story that allowed her to not have sex with any of her boyfriends. She was re-married to God after Beth and besides, who wanted to have sex with someone that already proved could get pregnant. It was the perfect excuse. I wish I could have thought of it, it may have kept Finn's twenty four seven horniness away from me long enough to actually miss him between get-togethers. I keep coming back to Finn, maybe he bought me the video camera because he thought he'd be able to videotape the two of us in the bedroom. It seems likely but he would have mentioned it in the card or almost immediately after he gave it to me. He would have been eager and excited to _test it out. _It just doesn't make sense, someone had to have helped him.

"So this date in Chelsea?" I ask after some time.

"Hardly something I want to discuss, especially with a _patient._"

She's playful when she says it, I narrow my eyes but don't reprimand her, she's doing it on purpose.

"Why not? Was she a train wreck?"

She bobs her head back and forth indecisively, "You could say that."

"So you're not going to give me specifics?"

"No."

Of course not.

"You're not very fun."

"I never was."

I decide not to take the bait.

"Where did you meet? Please tell me it was church, that would just be the icing on the cake."

I. Would. Die.

She glares at me, "Kurt."

"Oh even better, it was a blind date wasn't it?"

She doesn't answer so I have my answer.

I clap along with my laughter, "God, you're pathetic."

She huffs and runs a hand through her hair, "Why, because I still go on dates? I'm a little old fashion but I'm hardly pathetic."

She gives me a little more than she intended to.

"So this is a reoccurring thing? Kurt setting you up on blind dates?"

She doesn't respond again and my laughter only increases.

"Are you finished?"

"Far from it, I want to know about these dates."

She huffs lightly, more out of irritation that she's about to give in than anything else, "Haven't you been on a date?"

What's a date?

"You mean, a prearranged meeting of two people in a restaurant that's surrounded by paparazzi? Sure, every week."

"No. An intimate date, with someone you actually _are_ interested in."

In high school, sure. Finn took me on dates all the time, but only because I bothered and nagged him until he made reservations at _Breadstix_. Once a month, I'd say that was our average. He put out all the stops for our Christmas date, as if someone else planned it entirely. Once again, this is consuming my mind when I should be thinking about the fact that Quinn Fabray is oh-so-gay. Dates were overrated, I just no longer see the appeal.

I can't contain the laughter that's bubbling from my throat, "No, why would I ever do that?"

"Have you ever been with a woman?"

"Like in the biblical sense?"

She rolls her eyes "Like in the sense that they stick around later than 9am."

"No."

"Why?"

I shrug, "I don't know, I think it's in my contract."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm not, but why would I put myself through that kind of torture if I'm not interested in anything about them other than their tongue?"

She squirms slightly.

"If you got to know them, maybe you'd want them to stick around and you could enjoy their _tongue_ even more."

I quirk an eyebrow, "Did you just humor me?"

"Maybe," she laughs slightly.

"It was incredibly uncomfortable to hear you speak in such vulgar taste," I tease.

She rolls her eyes playfully before uncrossing her legs and stepping down from the coffee table. She plops down on the couch next to me, leaning her back against the armrest and bringing her legs towards her chest. She rests her chin on her knees. I'm mad that I can no longer lay down and play my ball throwing game.

"How do you think I feel?"

I know she's talking about how weird it is to hear me curse and bluntly say what's on my mind; it took some time for me to get used to as well. But in reality, it's what I've always done.

Sometimes I wonder how I got to be this way, or if I've always been like this. I guess the big flashing warning sign was first displayed through my competitive nature in high school. I mean, I _did_ send a potential threat to a crack house when I was sixteen. That should have been a big enough indicator that I would turn into an even bigger bitch once I got the taste of fame. In actuality, Quinn shouldn't have expected me to be any different than I really am. I've always spoke my honest opinions and told people what was on my mind, so sue me if I have different things on my mind.

"I don't know, how do you _feel_? You need someone to help you with that sexual frustration," I reply in a low and good-humored growl.

"That's not what I was referring to and you know it!"

I take some time to reply. Especially because I'm back on the tangent of Finn's Christmas present. How did he even know I was in need of a new camera? It's not like he actually watched my videos and noticed there was a short period of time in which there were no videos. I'd only told a few of the girls as we waited for Glee to start, and it's not like they _ever_ listened to my long winded rants. I could have confessed to murder and gotten away with it, sometimes I did just to see if they'd react. Never a reaction.

The damn thing somehow broke during a very tearful rendition of my favorite Bette Midler song. Okay, well it didn't so much as _break _mid-song, it just didn't record for some reason. It broke when I threw it against the wall.

"You've got to be sexually frustrated, you want to know why?"

"Oh please, wise one. Enlighten me," she throws her hands up in the air, fully surrendering.

I turn my body to fully face her.

"You do all the work in order to get to the good stuff, and I can't imagine anyone wanting to sit through a date with you even if the reward was sex," she starts to open her mouth to protest so I let her, interested in what she might have to say.

"I'm not the crazy one on these dates," she replies.

"Of course you aren't, when you're a stuck up psychologist, everyone around you is the crazy one. I don't think anyone will ever stand a chance on a date with you."

"I'm not taking relationship advice from you."

"Why not? I have the perfect setup; I get the reward without having to put in the work."

She shakes her head, "That seems unhealthy."

"I deserve to have some kind of satisfaction."

I do.

"So you're suggesting that I just have one night stands with people?"

My smile reaches my eyes, "Yup, release some of that pent up aggression you have."

"I have no pent up aggression."

I run my palm over the back of the couch absentmindedly.

"Sure you don't."

"I think you need to find someone, going on a real date might be good for you," she says decidedly.

"And sex might be good for you too," She huffs so I elaborate, "Here's how I look at it, Doc. We each have two very different methods, neither of us have found love so what the hell is the difference?"

She takes some time to think it over, leaving me to my own thoughts once again.

Suddenly it all comes crashing down on me, the so obvious and blatant truth. The image of Quinn and Finn drinking lemonade as they walked through the mall together. Quinn had a few bags in her hand, most likely Christmas shopping for her family. While Finn pointed to various stores, Quinn shaking her head at almost every single one of them. I'd only been following them for a few minutes after I spotted them and once I got over the jealous rage that coursed through my body at the fact that Finn wouldn't be caught dead in the mall with me but had all the time in the world for Quinn, I became curious. What the hell were they doing in the mall together in the first place. It all makes everything come into clear focus. He'd asked her for help in shopping for me. And she agreed.

"You may have a point, but it doesn't prove your method right."

I fix my attention on her, suddenly seeing her in a different light. It takes me a few seconds to recall what I had said previously in order for her to give me that response. And that's probably why I decide to take this conversation down a different path, just to see how she reacts again.

"I could take you on this couch right here and now and you'd probably be somewhat bearable afterwards. You need to get laid already."

"If I were _even_ to entertain the idea, you'd only find me bearable because we've already established a relationship."

"This has the potential to turn into a chicken or the egg dilemma," I yawn.

"And where are these girls that you slept with now?"

"Well one of them was your receptionist 3 weeks ago," I smirk.

She blushes. I wonder just how much that bitch told her of our encounter. Like it was even memorable. I remember kicking her out when she tried to touch me.

She presses on, "And how does this not land on the front page of the tabloids?"

"Because I don't waste my time on dates, and I think they sign a contract or something, maybe they get hush money; I don't handle that part of it," I wave off.

I should really look into it and find out if what I'm doing is legal.

"So you're running a solicitation ring now?

Yeah, definitely illegal.

I'm not dignifying her with a response.

She's making me seem like some kind of cheap whore. I'm also exaggerating just how many women I've been with. It's like once a month or something.

"So you're telling me that you enjoy these dates that Kurt sets you up on?"

"Far from it," she says, "I do it to humor him."

Surely my eyes just bulged out of my head, "So then why the hell are you trying to preach this to me if you don't even enjoy it?"

"I got you to open up a little more, didn't I?" she has a faint smile on her face and she seems proud of herself. I wonder if she has a devilish alter ego too. I wonder what his name would be.

"And what did you learn from this little exercise?" I ask.

"That you're afraid of commitment."

It scares me that she didn't even miss a beat.

"Oh really? Is this your diagnosis?"

She nods, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. There's something so childish and innocent about it.

"If I was afraid of commitment, I wouldn't still be with Tristan," I reason.

"You're using him as a cover," she points out.

I would normally just tell myself that she was assuming this fact. But she's too sure about this.

"Exactly, I'm committed to not blowing my cover."

I don't feel threatened by her prying in the least bit, which is something I normally would feel. I'm more hell-bent on trying to convince her that I don't need him. I sound like an alcoholic denying their addiction, or a chain smoker that claims they only light up when they're drunk. Maybe they are the same person and the vicious cycle will never end.

"I could break it off with Tristan at any point in time."

Her tone is too casual for this conversation, "Then break it off."

"Is this one of your assignments?"

"If you want it to be."

She's challenging me. I can play this game too.

"If I break up with him, you have to have a one night stand."

"You're using this as a bargaining chip?" she can't believe it, I don't understand why.

"If you want to call it that, yes."

"This is ridiculous," she throws her hands in the air.

Ideas pop into my head, my attention span can only last for so long before it's creeping out the back door in order to make room for something new and shiny.

"Who turned you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I bet it was your college roommate," I tell her blankly, already convincing myself that I'm right. I know I'm right.

"Kate?"

"Yup, her. She turned you faster than a record player, didn't she?" I'm nodding. Damn, I'm good.

"I don't see how that's any of your business."

"You couldn't handle not fitting in. You even chose the same major as her," I gesture around the office.

"That doesn't mean anything," she's starting to get defensive, I enjoy punching her into a corner.

I ignore her, "You're either still hung up on the thought of her or there's someone else that you could never have that makes everyone else pale in comparison. That's the only way you'd be so against one night stands."

"Oh, are those the only two reasons?" she asks sarcastically, she makes it too easy.

"Nice defense mechanism and the fact that you're horrible at denying things, I'd say yes, those are the only two reasons."

"You're impossible."

"You don't find me the least bit amusing?" I quirk an eyebrow, giving her a full smirk.

Her lips curve upwards against her will, "Oh you're definitely amusing."

"I bet none of your other patients are like this," I wink.

"I don't discuss my other patients."

I wonder how many times she has to say that a day.

"That boring, huh?" I scrunch my face in sympathy.

She gives me a smile that answers my question.

"Well as much as I enjoy being your daily entertainment, my time was up five minutes ago."

I'm not really concerned that I went over, especially because I know that she has an hour off for lunch.

She looks shocked and further shocked once her eyes find the clock on the wall behind her.

"Did we just get through an entire session? And then some?"

"Appears that way, Doc," I nod.

"Is this your new nickname for me?"

"You don't like it?" I pout.

"It feels weird."

"Good."

She shakes her head, unwilling to even protest.

"We made excellent progress today, Rachel," she replies, almost systematically. I bet she ends every session with those words.

I should get some kind of sticker for enduring a full hour of her.

She stands and begins walking me to the door.

"I guess we did."

"I'll see you Wednesday."

"Wednesday, yeah."

"Have a good afternoon," she tells me as she holds the door open with her back against it.

"You too," I add as I turn around and walk towards the lobby. I have a better idea, "Maybe you'll consider my suggestion?"

"Doubtful."

"Your loss," I tell her before turning around, "Bye Erin," I give her a half wave for good measure and she looks as if she's just gone into cardiac arrest. I chuckle to myself as I put my sunglasses back on.

"How was today's session, Miss Berry?" Lauren asks as I walk out of the revolving doors and onto the street.

I consider snapping at her and telling her to mind her own business.

"It was good, thank you for asking Lauren."

She looks speechless, in fact, she is speechless, and I smirk to myself as I climb into the back of the dubbed out town car.

So much happened in an hour, and I don't know what to make of any of it.

But there is one thing I'm certain about, Quinn Fabray was behind my new video camera in high school.


	6. Chapter 6

"On Wednesday's session we talked a lot about old acquaintances," Quinn says from her position on the coffee table, she sips the coffee that I handed her when I walked in earlier.

It's oddly settling, the sense of normalcy behind each and every session. As if she's been my therapist since I was a child. It's become habit for me to go straight into her office after coming off the elevator. Her receptionist always says hello to me and I sometimes give her a faint smile in return for her always genuine pleasantries. The other patients are nowhere to be found as I open the door to find Quinn writing at her desk. It's the only time I get to see her in her reading glasses. I tend to throw myself back first onto the white couch, kicking my boots off as I go and as Quinn stands from her brown leather desk chair, she throws the stress ball towards me and so resumes the game I created nearly two weeks ago.

"How's your drink?" I ask.

"It's very good, tell Lauren I said thank you."

It was actually _my_ suggestion and idea but she doesn't need to know that I did something nice for her, I wouldn't want it going to her head.

After some banter and teasing, she somehow gets me to open up about something. She's quite good at her job if I'm being honest. Halfway through our sessions, I normally sit up in order to deliver one of my exquisite points and that's when she sneakily joins me on the couch.

"Will do, Doc."

"So as I was saying…" she continues, leaving it open ended.

"What? Oh right, yeah we were talking about Finn."

I sit up, and she almost immediately takes this as her invitation to join me.

My body is already facing where she's about to sit. It's not like I'm aware that I'm doing it, it's just normal.

"Was it really hard for you to see me with him after we got together?" I ask, the thought crossed my mind last session and it refused to leave.

"It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, besides, I had Puck and then I dated Sam for a while."

I take in what she's saying, Noah was never really there for her the way she needed him to be and Sam seemed like a nice distraction but probably too into himself to treat her right. Finn was the one that she had to give away and it probably didn't make matters any better when he nearly ran right into my arms. The tension between the two of us never dissipated, I'd always blamed Quinn's hatred towards me on Finn. It was easier to scapegoat it than admit she hated me for being myself.

"It probably wasn't easy though," I offer.

She shakes her head, almost sadly, "No."

At one point in my life, I loved attention. I still enjoy attention but not when it's negative, which is what I deal with at this stage of my career. Finn gave me attention and when he gave his attention to Quinn in the beginning, I basically didn't settle until the spotlight was back on me. I wonder if she singlehandedly blames me for their demise. I _was _the one that unraveled the entire secret. It probably wasn't easy for her to have to handle both Puck_ and_ Finn ogling after her and in the back of her mind know that the only thing preventing her from telling the truth was because Finn would crawl to me if he found out. Which is exactly what happened. I acted like her foe when she could have used a friend.

"I'm sorry that I was such an unnecessary nuisance in High School."

"Wow," she gasps, "an apology?"

This is the part of the session where I throw the ball at her.

"I'm trying at least."

I truly am.

"I appreciate your apology but it's really not needed," she tosses the ball back to me and so begins our friendly game of catch.

I like to silently deduct points from her if she fumbles the ball or drops it. I strive to catch it every time just in case she's deducting points from me. Sometimes she lobs it, sometimes she throws it high in the air, and sometimes she line drives it. Sometimes I throw it over her head when she laughs at me, so she'll have to get up. I don't feel like doing that today after one of her line drives.

"How come we didn't go for a walk today?"

It's Friday and Friday is walk day. We walk five blocks to the park and sit on one of the park benches along the path. We normally see the creepy dog walker who tries to hit on the both of us, shamelessly. Last week Quinn made the comment that he kind of reminded her of Schuester as we were walking back to her office, and now I'm dying to go back and see for myself.

"It's raining out," she laughs.

"Oh, right."

She catches the lob and squeezes it a few times.

"Do you like the walks?"

"Maybe" I reply, attempting to hide my embarrassment.

She smiles and tosses the ball back finally.

"Only because I'm allowed to wear my sunglasses," I add and she smiles a little bolder.

"You feel safe behind them?"

I don't answer her.

"Do you sit on the couch with your other patients? Or take them for walks?" I ask, unable to tame my curiosity.

She must notice the edge to my voice. I'm starting to realize that nothing gets by her and I wonder how long she's been like that. It seems like a trait that one would have their entire lives.

"Are you jealous?" she raises an eyebrow teasingly.

"No, of course not. I just can't imagine doing this for a living," I pat the couch, which I've yet to come up with a name for. I can't decide between a human name or a pet name for the white comfort giver.

"Not normally," she replies finally.

I feel a weird relief.

"What about the assignments?"

"It depends on what they're struggling with."

I've noticed that she's been answering more and more of my questions about her other patients, never discussing the details, however.

"What am I struggling with?"

I can't help but ask. The entire thing intrigues me for some reason.

"I worry about you," she replies quietly.

"Why?"

My hands are positioned to receive the ball she's still holding in her hands, it never comes.

"The only two people we've discussed in your life are your assistant and someone that you've been pretending to date for almost a year."

I had to contain my laughter. It was pathetic but it was a funny kind of pathetic.

"You don't have a lot of famous people as patients do you?" I ask as the laugh finally escapes passed my lips. She finally throws the ball back to me.

"You'd be the first."

I don't want her to worry about me.

"I have Jesse," I tell her.

"Jesse?"

"St. James, surely you remember him."

Realization dawns on her face and then it turns into a weird scowl.

"You're friends with _him_? He treated you horribly," she practically shrieks and I'm a little taken back by her outburst.

I raise my eyebrow, "_He_ treated me horrible?"

She ignores me, "How long have you been friends with him?"

"I don't know, we met up at a release party and we're kind of the only thing each other has. He's like my rock; he gets what I go through."

"Makes sense."

Jesse St. James is a remarkable person. If the thought didn't entirely repulse me, I'd be convinced that he was my biological brother. Considering our short lived courtship in high school, we opt to consider ourselves best friends.

"Yeah, so you don't have to worry about me," I nod, hoping it convinces her.

"Now I'm going to worry about you more."

I drop the ball, "Why?"

Minus one.

"Because you seem lonely, Rachel"

I close my eyes for a split second at her observation. When they open, they open with renewed vigor and the knowledge that this is what I wanted to do with my life for as long as I could remember.

"It's lonely at the top, I've always known that."

"It doesn't have to be."

I don't say anything for a while, I still have the stress ball and I don't feel like throwing it back to her just yet. I watch my fist tighten and release it with a steady pulse.

"Normally at this point I would have someone from your life come sit in on one of your sessions."

I begin to protest, but she cuts me off smartly.

"I'm not going to do that because like we've already discussed, this isn't exactly a normal situation."

Couldn't agree more.

"So what are you going to make me do instead?"

"I was going to ask you anyway but I'll make it your assignment so that you'll have no choice in the matter."

She's beaming. I'm frightened.

"This sounds like a death sentence."

"At least you're still as dramatic as you used to be," she gives me a cheeky grin and I decide it's now the perfect time to throw the ball back to her.

"Lay it on me, Doctor. What is my assignment this weekend?"

I take a breath and prepare myself for the inevitable doom that's about to be fated upon me.

"Tomorrow night, we're all going to dinner and you're going to come."

I think I just lost my stomach.

"Who is _all going_ to dinner?"

"The old crew, well everyone but Finn, Sam, Mike, Artie and Mercedes," she counts on her manicured fingers.

I feel like it would have been easier for her to say who _was_ going.

Regardless.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because, that's worse than a death sentence."

What's worse than a death sentence?

"They hate me, and I'm sure they all resent me." I add instead.

"You're being dramatic again," she replies dryly.

I'm hyperventilating, how could she think I'm being dramatic? This is _real_ terror.

"I'm not, it's the truth. I haven't seen any of them since Puck's graduation party and you want me to go to dinner? Why don't you just tie me to a train track?"

She rolls her eyes, clearly she doesn't believe me, "They would never be mean to you."

The hell they wouldn't.

"They were in High School," I refute.

"We were kids, Rachel."

As if that's an excuse.

"Yes and now that they're older, they've had longer to think of clever and overused nicknames for me."

"I'll be there with you, nothing is going to happen. Besides, they're going to be so excited to see you again; they all miss you so much."

She's a damn good convincer.

"I don't believe you."

"I promise you."

* * *

What a stupid thing to agree to. What a stupid fucking thing to agree to. She bombarded me with this shit and now my face is paying for it. I'm breaking out from all this unwanted and sudden stress. This is what happens when I do nice things for people.

"Where the _fuck_ is my concealer?" I scream as I slam another drawer closed. I never liked that draw anyway, it loses things.

"Which one?"

"The one that I like," I pull back some of the sarcasm that was begging to make an appearance. I feel like she's the only one that can help me find what I'm looking for.

"It's behind your mirror."

I huff and open the mirror, I could have sworn I already looked behind there. Sure enough, Lauren the magician manages to put the concealer there while I was busy looking through the drawers. I swear she practices some kind of witch craft, she has a sixth sense stronger than mine.

I dab a little of the liquid makeup and smooth it over the beginnings of what may turn into a possible blemish in the near future.

"I don't know why you're freaking out, there's nothing on your face."

To the untrained eye maybe, but if I can feel it coming on than Kurt Hummel will _surely_ be able to detect it. He's a bloodhound for imperfections, and tonight I am in _no_ mood to give him any ammo.

"Shut up. Did you find the black dress?"

I have hundreds of black dresses, luckily Lauren knows exactly which one when I say_ black dress_.

"Yes, hours ago when you asked me the first time. It's draped on your bed, along with the back-ups you asked for. Remind me again who you're going to dinner with, and why I had to clear all of your Sunday Morning meetings."

"My Glee club from High School and because I plan on being blacked out by 10 pm, I'll be far too hung over to put up with my publicist at 8am."

Not that I can put up with her at 8am sober either. Hell, I can't even deal with her at any time of the day.

"Should I call your lawyer? Are you planning on being arrested tonight?" she yells from the bedroom.

"Just because I'm being nicer to you lately doesn't mean you have permission to be witty," I tell her as I get done blending in some eye shadow.

"If you give a mouse a cookie," she mumbles as I walk out of the bathroom.

"What?" I heard her but I want to see if she has the balls to say it again.

She doesn't answer and I consider it a small victory. I was losing my edge lately and it was still nice to be reassured that I was still feared. I'd have an uproar on my hands if I wasn't careful.

I walk over towards the bed and pick up the dress that is currently being sheltered by plastic wrapping.

"Look, I know that you had off tonight but thank you for helping me."

She was still getting used to the fact that I was starting to be nicer to her and it still took her a few seconds for the shock to wear off when I thanked her for things.

"It's my job," she smiles, "Are you sure you don't want me to join you? I've never seen you this strung out."

It's true. I've had to deal with hundreds of red carpets, thousands of important record company parties, a hell of a lot of television appearances, presenting at award shows, you name it and I've pretty much passed with flying colors. This? This was different.

I step into my dress and fumble with the zipper behind my back for a second before I turn to face her, holding the dress against my bare chest.

"No, I don't think it would do any good to show up with my assistant But, I mean, could you—"

"Just ask me," she rolls her eyes playfully, I wonder if she knows what I'm going to ask.

"Do you think you could call me an hour in? Just in case I'm miserable and need a reason to leave?"

"I was already planning on it."

Of course she was. Because she's the best assistant I've ever had. I give her a smile as I turn back around so she can zip up the dress.

"Do they know you're going?"

"I don't think so."

"Good, at least the paparazzi won't be tipped off."

Yeah, that wouldn't be good.

"Shit! I completely forgot about them. They're going to think I'm some stuck up bitch even more than they already do."

"I'll anonymous tip TMZ that you're somewhere else," she tells me, already pulling her phone out of her pocket.

"You're the best," I tell her gratefully.

She nearly drops her phone, "Can I get that in writing?"

I'm about to remark with something clever and ego-bashing but there's a loud buzz coming from the box next to the front door.

My eyes go wide, "Would Dr. Fabray's office happen to have my home address on file?"

Lauren's eyes also go wide as she rushes out through the foyer in order to answer the call box. I hear Quinn's voice drifting down the hallway and into my room.

"Fuck!" I growl out as I fumble with the zipper of my leather boots.

Lauren has my pea coat and clutch waiting for me by the time I get to the door.

She follows me out, I apply some finishing touches to my make up while she disguises her voice on the phone, I secretly think she gets a kick out of messing with the photographers. There's really no need for her to disguise her voice.

Quinn is casually chatting with the inside door man, leaning up against his gold accented desk. She looks up when she hears the small heels clack against the marble tiles. Her face brightens when she sees me and it's contagious.

"I thought I was meeting you at the restaurant?"

She shrugs and loops her arm with mine; I'm strangely okay with the friendly gesture.

"It was a nice night" she tells me as the second doorman opens the door for us, "And I didn't want you to have to show up alone, I know how nervous you are."

Lauren gets off the phone behind us and calls Quinn's name as I go to get in the car.

My sneaky assistant closes the door as I try to lean over and listen. I can see them conversing through the tinted windows. After a minute, Lauren hands her a small piece of paper and I know exactly what she's doing.

Quinn gets into the car finally.

"She's slightly terrifying," Quinn comments.

"What did she give you?"

She hands me the piece of paper and I look it over.

"Emergency contact list? Are you my babysitter tonight?"

"Appears that way," she chuckles as the driver pulls away from the curb.

"What else did she say?" I demand.

"Absolutely under _no_circumstance am I allowed to let you have tequila," she turns to look at me, "Who's Ramona?"

I wave her off, "My drunk alter-ego."

"Your drunk alter ego? Who has one of those?"

"Everyone." I state, "She comes out when I drink tequila, and then Ray likes to get his two cents in there every once in a while."

I wonder if I sound as crazy to other people as I do in my head.

"And who is Ray?" she asks, highly amused with this entire thing.

"He's my mischievous alter ego, they became best friends one night," I nod, I can't believe I'm telling her all of this. It's the nerves.

She giggles.

"I want to meet Ramona."

"Well you won't because Lauren is apparently my keeper and won't let me have tequila."

She smiles a wicked smile that even Ray would commend, "I won't tell if you don't."

I raise my eyebrow.

"I'm not your therapist tonight," she reminds me, "I'm your friend."

I take my lower lip between my teeth as the label swirls around my head. Were we friends? Friends were few and miles between.

"Right?" she asks after my silence.

I give her a smile, "We'll see how tonight goes," I tell her.

She sits back against the black leather seats, watching the people as they pass by. Something that I find peace in. We pull up alongside the curb of the restaurant and I breathe a sigh of relief when I don't see any photographers. Almost all of my outings are carefully coordinated so that a picture will be taken; this was a more than welcomed change.

Quinn helps me out of the car and walks ahead of me into the restaurant, the hostess stares at me as she points in the general direction of where the rest of our table waits and I know that any chance of me getting out of here alive at the end of the night is going to be slim to none.

"You okay?" Quinn asks.

"Hmm? Yeah, now or never right?"

She gives me a smile before giving my hand a tight squeeze as we approach the round table full of my past.

"Finally, what took you so long?" the irritation in Noah's voice never left.

"Seriously, and who's this surprise guest you brought?" That was defiantly Tina.

Quinn steps aside to reveal me and I give an awkward wave to all of their dropped jaws.

"Holy shit."

Oh Santana, always the subtle one with her expressions.

"I can't believe my eyes."

"Hi guys."

Quinn's eyes are running laps between looking at me and looking at the rest of the group.

All at once they stand, and I'm a tad startled.

Brittany's arms are around me first, followed by Tina's. Noah's in line next and Santana even puts her arms around me briefly. Kurt's hug is by far the biggest, and I can see the amusement in Quinn's face from over his shoulder.

I take my sit in between Quinn and Noah. I timidly look around the table of still wide eyes, and take note that almost everyone has someone accompanying them. Noah's girlfriend looks slightly jealous when he puts his arm around the back of my chair in an almost protective manner. It makes my heart swell at the gesture. I can tell Kurt's man friend is dying to give me the third degree about the fabulous life from across the table. Tina's smile is wide and it feels slightly strange to not see her with Artie, especially after they got back together during their Senior year. Brittany and Santana are still Brittany and Santana, and it's comforting for some reason. I glance to Quinn who's still smiling as she looks over her menu, I'm half expecting her to have a trophy husband that's going to order the food for the both of them. It's then that I realize that I'm technically Quinn's date in this entire blast from the past. I swallow some nervous jitters and prepare myself for the inquisition that I'm about to endure.

The waitress comes to the table upon seeing the entire party is finally here and takes our drink orders. The restaurant is dimly lit with red hues but I can still see every single person's eyes on me, I've never needed a drink so bad. This is worse than any promotional party I've had to suffer through and certainly more critical than the Grammy red carpet.

I go to open my mouth before I feel Quinn's hand on my arm.

"Two shots of whatever Tequila you have, and I'll also have anything with Vodka and Sprite in it."

"I'll have the same," I tell the waitress.

"So that's four shots of Tequila and two—"

"Oh no, wait."

Quinn's hand squeezes around my arm, "That's fine."

I lean over, "People are going to think you're trying to get me drunk, Fabray."

"I've been meeting with you for nearly 6 weeks, I know what it means when your leg bounces like that," she whispers lowly over the clattering of the restaurant.

I give her a grateful smile before sitting back up.

"Rachel Berry, I still can't believe it," Kurt's man friend, Antonio says.

"_You _can't believe it?" Kurt replies, "_I _can't believe it."

"How did you two meet up anyway?"

I look towards Quinn in a moment of panic, she smiles brightly at me before turning towards Santana.

"We ran into each other last week in the park."

I sigh out relief.

"Wow Quinn, you must have been beside yourself," Kurt tells her as he leans forward.

She tenses next to me momentarily but it's enough for me to press the matter.

"Why's that Kurt?"

He laughs as he takes a sip of what I can assume is a very fruity drink by the color of it, "She always did have a crush on you."

I turn to look at her but she's too busy giving her famous glare towards Kurt.

"Oh c'mon, we're all adults now," Kurt shrugs, "I find it highly amusing that fate has laid this hand for you guys, at least you can be friends now."

I'm completely thrown for a loop with this piece of information, before I let myself dwell on it, the waitress sets down our drinks. I put on a fake smile like I have so many times before.

"You're absolutely right, I hope you can all find it in yourselves to forgive my lack of presence, it's truly wonderful to see you all again," I tell them all.

Brittany raises her glass and the others follow suit.

I give Quinn a tight lipped smile when she chances a look at me.

"To Rachel's success and new beginnings," Kurt announces, "And to my new hair cut," he adds before finishing off his drink, already attempting to wave down the waitress.

I down one of the shots before moving towards the second one.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asks through a gritted smile as everyone busies themselves with the menu.

I give her a wide and surely fake grin, "I don't think you want me lucid right now," I tell her through my teeth.

I take the second shot before chasing it with my cocktail.

She slides her second shot towards me as a peace offering, at least that's what I'm going to assume.

* * *

"You must, _must_ tell me what it was like to perform with Kanye West last year."

"Guys, leave Rachel alone already."

God, I'm drunk.

"Yeah, you act like you've never seen a celebrity before," Noah speaks up, his arm found the back of my chair again once he finished his dinner.

I lean back into it and give the table a lazy smile.

"We haven't," Kurt deadpans, "Rachel, would you consider wearing one of my original designs to an award show?"

Noah's adam apple is huge and he has a very tiny scar under his chin, it's kind of precious. I lull my head over towards Kurt's voice.

"Sure."

He squeals and my head falls back onto Noah's arm. My cheeks are on fire. He peers down at me and gives me his smirk, it's so comforting. I smile back at him.

I'm seconds from reaching out and tracing his scar.

"Berry, you're like nowhere near as annoying as you were in High School."

"Thank you, Santana. I'm probably a bigger bitch than you are now, too."

She scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest, "I doubt that very much."

I shrug, "Whatever."

"What is it like dating Tristan McNally? Are his abs as pretty in real life?"

"Yes Brittany, they are," I reach out towards the edge of the table, looking for something to hold onto while I try to pull myself up, Quinn's hand on my lower back helps me find my way, "Want to know a big Hollywood secret?" I ask.

They all look like salivating dogs.

"Rachel," Quinn whispers to the side of me.

"I mean like, really big, I could get in trouble for leaking this."

Those words only make them all lean in closer. Suddenly my phone rings in my purse, I'm tempted to ignore it but it's in front of my face and under it is Quinn's hand. I grumble a few obscenities before speaking into the phone. It's Lauren, she's a tad late in calling, or maybe she's early. Time is hard.

"Excuse me," I tell the table, "it's my assistant."

"She has an assistant?" I hear one of them whisper as I walk away from the table.

"What?" I ask into the phone.

"Miss Berry, there's an emergency and you _need_ to get here immediately."

"Is this serious?"

"No, but you sometimes don't realize your phone is on speaker so I thought I'd make it believable anyway," she reasons.

She's just so smart all the time.

"You're silly."

"Oh my god, you're drunk."

I'm offended by the accusation.

"What? Noooo."

"You're exaggerating vowels and giggling, you're drunk. I'm coming to get you."

"No. I'm having fun with my friends."

I stomp my foot, I refuse to be babied.

"Now they're your friends?"

I move out of the way of a waitress as I lean against one of the high top tables near the bar that's not currently being occupied. My eyes trail back over to the table, my gaze landing on Quinn's. It's suddenly mesmerizing.

"Hey, did you know that Quinn used to have a crush on me?" I laugh into the phone, it's amusing.

"This is bad, this is _so_ bad."

Quinn's pulling back from her seat and I see her making her way towards me. I give her a smile as she maneuvers around the tables. She smiles shyly back at me.

"What was that?" I ask, I don't know what's making me so distracted.

"Rachel, you need to listen to me."

"Did you just call me Rachel?" I ask in a daze.

"Listen. To. Me. You better not do anything stupid, the news of your breakup isn't being released until after this weekend, you can't afford any bad press before this story comes out, do you understand?"

"Sure."

"And do I need to remind you, she is your _therapist._"

"Yup."

"Rachel!"

"Got it, I need to go now, Bye Lauren," I trail off as Quinn stands in front of me.

I hold my phone out and she takes it.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, that was just Lauren, she was just calling in case I was miserable and wanted to leave," I tell her our little behind the scenes secret.

She looks down at my phone before looking back up at me.

"Are you miserable?" she asks hesitantly.

"You're the doctor, shouldn't you be able to tell?"

She smirks and studies my eyes, I'd feel violated and demand my sunglasses at any other time but right now, it's soothing.

"You're not miserable," she states firmly in a soft voice.

"No," I slowly shake my heavy head back and forth, "I'm not."

I stare into her eyes for a little while, just content.

"What were you going to tell them back there?" she gestures over her shoulder, I think she means at the table.

"Wouldn't you like to know," I tease, feeling braver by the second.

The alcohol pumping through my veins is exhilarating as I'm under Quinn's gaze. It's like being under a spotlight.

"I would."

I shrug, "Just about me and Tristan."

"What about you guys?" she asks, swallowing some of the air between us.

"We decided to end our agreement."

"You did?"

I nod and lean closer.

"Do you know what that means?" I ask seductively, stepping into some of her space.

She shakes her head back and forth.

I sound sexy in my head. I can only hope it's that way to the outside world.

I smile before licking my lips, "It means that you now have to take part in a one night stand."

Quinn smirks, "Is that so? And are you going to help me find a willing participant?"

I take my lower lip between my teeth, and nod up and down.

"Pray tell, Miss Berry, where we are going to find this willing participant that will engage in such sinful behavior?"

"Please, this is New York," I roll my eyes, "And the night is still young," I smile as I take a step back.

Her entire face is written with amusement as the candle on the high-top table flickers back and forth.

"So does this mean you're not ready to go home?" she asks hopeful, "Because the rest of them want to go to a bar or something for more drinks."

I hold my arm out, "Lead the way."

She smiles and gently takes my wrist before we make our way back to the round table.

* * *

"That was amazing! The adrenaline rush was like riding a roller coaster ride on speed, it was like, like—"

"We get it," Santana growls out, "You've only been talking about it for the past 5 blocks."

"Well excuse me if I've never had a paparazzi experience before," Kurt defends himself.

"I'm sorry about that guys."

I've apologized maybe 10 times already. Cameras flashing in your face is an extremely sobering experience.

Noah's arm is still wrapped around my shoulders as we walk towards our destination, you'd think he'd dealt with the photographers his entire life, the way he handled the situation we encountered when we left the restaurant.

Quinn had been watching me with steady eyes, surely afraid that I would assault someone, when Noah came to the rescue and got me away from the growing crowd. Kurt and Antonio had been in heaven.

"Don't apologize, it's not your fault," Quinn says, even though it's the 10th time she said it.

Noah's arm tightens slightly around me and if I close my eyes it feels like Jesse is here with me and I don't have to see the glaring and jealous eyes of Puckerman's girlfriend, Crystal. I'm not even going to get into how much that name suits her. And him, for that matter.

Santana and Brittany's giggles filter towards us as they take their time bringing up the rear of the group. Kurt and his boyfriend are practically skipping ahead of us as they recount the experience they just lived through, at least someone enjoyed it. Crystal is on Noah's other side, fighting for his attention as we listen to Tina and her husband say goodnight to their toddler before he went to bed. Quinn's arms were hiding in the pockets of her navy blue pea coat, her chin tucked into her white scarf as she walked by herself ahead of us.

I turn my head to look up at Noah, he gives me a smile as I peel his arm off of my shoulders. I jog lightly, scuffing my boots on the brick sidewalk, in order to catch up to Quinn. My arm slides in between hers and her body as we silently walk another few block to the bar someone suggested.

"The line is way too long and it's too chilly out here, where else can we go?"

I roll my eyes and march towards the bouncers that stand outside the doorway in black jackets and hats.

"Can you let me and my friends in, boys?" I ask, batting my eyelashes for good measure. I have no idea if this will work because I've always been accompanied by someone more famous than me but it's worth a shot. And it would totally get me bonus points with my old acquaintances.

Both men nod before stepping aside, signaling to the group that they can head over to us.

"That was AMAZING!" Kurt yells over the music.

Santana rolls her eyes, "Here we go again, good work Berry."

I give Santana a matching eye roll as we check our coats.

"That _was_ pretty sick, Berry."

I feel a sense of pride when I see Quinn's smile next to him.

"Thank you, Noah" I smile at him.

His girlfriend stomps her foot and disappears in the crowd somewhere before he sighs and makes his way to go find her.

"Did I do something to upset her?" I ask as the rest of us grab a round booth in the back corner.

"No, she sucks. We hate her," Santana says as she slides across the seat.

Brittany and Tina both nod. I look to Quinn as she slides in after me.

"I can't stand her," she admits lowly.

I laugh out loud, "Why don't you guys go all Cheerios on her then? I'm surprised she's still around after 3 years."

I find it hard to believe that all three of them have lost their touch.

"Oh, I'd _love_ to, believe me. Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman over here won't let us."

I turn to look at her, "Puck is happy," she simply says.

"She's perfect for him but a terrible human being, she's downright awful," Kurt speaks up, I was unaware that he was even listening.

"But keep doing what you're doing, it's driving her crazy how much attention he's giving you," Santana tells me with a devilish grin that would normally make my skin crawl. It might be entertaining, and I'll do anything for Santana to approve of me.

"Yeah Rach, you can totally tell he's smitten with you. I bet he likes you."

I feel Quinn's hand on my lower back, I don't want to assume it's possessive but I don't want to think it's anything else. I lean back into her hand.

"I can't believe I'm telling Rachel Berry to flirt with Puck," Santana says.

I'm kinda in shock too. She would have clawed my eyes out if I so much as looked at him for too long in high school.

But I'm still impressed with the fact that Brittany used smitten correctly in a sentence. In high school she was convinced that a smitten was a scarf for a kitten.

"What do you want to drink?" Quinn asks me as she goes to slide out of the booth.

"Whatever you're getting."

"Okay," she smiles.

"Fabray, get me a beer," Santana demands.

"Get your own," she shouts over her shoulder as she saunters towards the bar.

This night is definitely an interesting one, and surprisingly tame. I'd been having visions of various scenes playing out in my head in which I was sure would happen. Most of them revolving around Santana bringing back those horrible memories from high school. To my surprise, Quinn was right. They truly seem like they missed me.

"Oh my god, Rachel. Your song is on!" Brittany claps.

"Hmm?"

The drinks are once again flowing through me and my eye lids feel heavier than normal. Quinn is drawing light circles on my wrist as it lies on the booth cushion next to me. I could fall asleep.

"Your song, ya know like your voice is currently blasting through the speakers," Kurt tells me.

I didn't even notice.

I shrug, "So it is."

It's like a techno remix of it or something. Atrocious.

"Aren't you going to dance to it or something?" Antonio asks.

"I don't dance unless I have to," I tell them.

"Aw c'mon, I'll dance with you."

Quinn's looking on with amusement, her head resting on her hand as her hair nearly curtains her face, she quirks an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

"Noah that's very nice of you but it's okay."

"You're gonna break my heart," he put his hands over her chest.

I giggle into my drink as Santana nudges me.

"Fine."

He pulls me up and leads me near a small crowd of people dancing. I pray to god that no one recognizes me.

"Your girlfriend is going to hate me even more," I tell him.

He waves it off, "It's because every time one of your songs come on, I brag about how I dated you," he laughs.

"Four days is hardly a relationship."

"I told her it was four months," he smirks, "Puckaroni has appearances to keep up," he winks, "So shut up and dance," he tells me as he twirls me comically.

Before I know it, the rest the group has joined in on the crowd, Brittany's signature robot dance is still quite amusing, while Kurt's pelvic thrusting has improved over the years. I survey the laughter and don't see who I'm looking for.

"Where is Quinn?" I shout into Santana's ear.

She points behind her towards the table.

"Ew, get off of me," I hear behind me.

I turn to find a particularly greased up man trying to pull Brittany towards him.

Santana lunges forward next to me.

"Get lost," she tells the boy.

"We're dancing here, why don't you get lost?"

I step in front of Santana, "You're raping her, get the fuck away from us, you pathetic loser," I tell him as I pull Brittany back to safety.

"You're a bitch."

"And you're a creep," I yell back.

He throws his hands up as he backs away angrily; I glare at him until I'm sure he won't come back.

"Damn Berry," Santana says behind me, "Who knew you had it in ya?"

"There's a lot you don't know about me," I mumble before turning around and walking back towards the table.

I take the drink out of Quinn's hand and finish the rest of it hastily.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," I snap.

"This is…" Quinn turns her attention towards the person sitting next to her, and for the first time I realize she's not alone.

"Nicole," the girl replies, a little put off.

"Yes, Nicole. This is Nicole."

"Charmed," I reply sarcastically before reaching across the table for someone else's drink, also finishing it rather quickly.

"I'll um, I'll leave you two alone," the girl replies, she's sensible.

"That's a good idea." I reply under my breath.

The girl slides out from the booth, I don't miss the lingering look that she shoots towards Quinn. Quinn's eyes are on me.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I tell her, looking around for another drink.

"Not nothing, I know when something is—"

"Do not start with me Fabray," I snap as I whip my head around to face her.

She shrinks back a bit and I feel guilty, she's undeterred for the most part however, "Did someone upset you?"

"No."

"Rach—"

I watch the strawberry blonde that just left the table as she stands with a group of her friends. She's pissing me off just by existing. I glare at her. She has the nerve to _actually_ point at me. I want to rip her head off.

Quinn follows my gaze.

"I wasn't going to do anything, it's not like I was seriously going to uphold that deal we made about one night stands and you breaking up with Tristan."

That bitch must be able to read my vivid thoughts because she finally looks frightened and turns around.

"Full of yourself much?"

She gives me an unamused look, "Is there another reason you're burning holes through the back of her head?"

That's physically impossible to do with your eyes. Although, if it was…

"I don't like her hair," I reply as I turn back to Quinn.

She smirks lightly.

"Do you want to dance?" she asks, suddenly unsure of herself.

I glance over to the wooden floor, where Quinn's friends are. They're dancing and sweating and laughing along to the music. It looks like fun. My eyes come back to the table behind Quinn, it looks so nice and sweat free. It reminds me of when she put her hand on my lower back or when she started tracing light patterns on my wrist, or when she whispered what she wanted to say to me in my ear.

My eyes find hers, still looking at me as if she's not in the middle of a bar.

"No."

She blindly backs up a bit, feeling behind her for the start of the table. She sits on the bench of the booth and slides over a bit, pulling my arm that she's somehow now holding onto and brings me down into the seat with her.

"Me either."


	7. Chapter 7

My fucking head.

Some invisible person is taking a bat to my head.

I swallow and my throat is so dry that it feels like I'm swallowing razor blades.

I attempt to open my eyes but they're glued shut.

What. The. Fuck.

I groan and roll onto my side, reaching out to find my night stand to figure out what time it is. My phone is not under my pillow like it normally is. I have to rely on the alarm clock. I thank every god there is in the universe that I had Lauren cancel all of my appointments this morning.

I manage to crack an eye open finally, you know when I'm too drunk for my own good the night before when I wake up with my makeup still on. I'm sure it's smeared all over my eyes, like some kind of raccoon. The red numbers finally register and the clock reads 9:49. I roll onto my back and blindly feel around for my telephone, instead I'm met with skin.

"What the hell!" I jump up, nearly falling off the bed as I see a body attached to the arm.

No. Just, no. I can't even…No. Please tell me that whoever I brought home last night is not still here. Why would I ever even _bring _someone back to my place? What did I even do last night? I look around the room, where the fuck am I?

The human groans and blonde hair shows above the comforter.

My life is over.

I take deep and even breaths, like my trainer has me do after work outs. This isn't what it looks like. Just think, Rachel.

Assignment, nerves, anxiety, restaurant, tequila, paparazzi, walking, bar, more tequila, dancing, laughing, leaving, stumbling, teasing, rejection, sleep, waking up, humiliation.

I need to get the _fuck_ out of this apartment before Quinn wakes up.

* * *

"Where the HELL have you been?" Lauren shouts from my couch as I open the door to my apartment, I groan at the loudness.

"Not now."

"I've called you 32 times, I've left you 14 voicemails, and I've texted you almost 40 times."

Ugh, I am _not_ looking forward to deciphering through those later. It might just be easier to buy a new phone. In fact, maybe I'll get a new phone number so that nobody bothers me ever again.

"My phone died," I answer, needing to find a bed or morphine as soon as possible. The elf inside my brain has started chiseling at the walls, if I close my eyes I can almost imagine him doing it.

"That doesn't answer my question."

Not today.

"I don't have to tell you shit," I fire back.

"Yes, you do."

"No. I don't."

"Then I quit," she says suddenly and begins to get up off the couch.

"You can't quit," I almost laugh in her face, I would have if the mere thought of doing it didn't make my head split open.

"I just did."

"No, I need you. You're the best assistant I've ever had, you can't leave."

I'm too hungover for pride. I'm not above begging at this point.

She falters but still shrugs, "Oh well."

"I was at Quinn's," I finally answer, waiting for the backlash that's surely about to come.

"You what?"

I throw my arms up defeated and walk down the hallway and towards my master bedroom. I wait for the main door to slam close as I contemplate calling Jesse long distance so he can help me start screening new assistants. But he's on tour and in a different country and it hurts to do the time difference math. I throw my body onto my bed and plug the phone into the charger, waiting for it to power up in order to call him anyway, he gets enough beauty sleep as it is. The main door never slams and suddenly the bed dips behind me.

"Tell me what happened," she says softly.

"You just quit, you're no longer legally contracted, anything I tell you will end up in the papers," I tell her bitterly as I lay my head on the pillow and curl up next to another one.

Thank god the pillow cases and sheets are black, I'm still too out of it to remove my makeup. Although for some reason, there is silver glitter in my eye. Freaking Kurt and his gay clubs. I didn't even _want _to go, but when five—technically six—of the ten of us are gay, the majority vote won. Even if I raised my hand twice. Okay, so I did want to go. But only because Quinn promised there would be more tequila and Ramona seemed to enjoy Quinn's company. If she was real, I'd beat the hell out of her for doing this to me.

"That was a bluff," she admits, "I'd never quit and I'd never tell the tabloids anything," she hands me a bottle of water and puts two pills into my hand.

"Thanks," I tell her before taking the pain relievers.

I roll over on my back and sigh, "I think I was too drunk to make it back by myself and Quinn's place was closer, so I'm assuming we just crashed there."

"Well that's harmless," she sighs out in relief.

It was harmless. I think. She just looked so lively and easy going, it was like we'd been best friends since middle school. Sharing inside jokes, and laughing at each other's professions. I'd point out a person and Quinn would guess what kind of psychological disorder they had, because apparently _everyone _had one. Except me that is. Cue Quinn's laughter. And it's not hard to become attracted to the idea of having some friends in the city that didn't want to trip me on a red carpet. That's what friends do, they get ridiculously drunk, pass out, and recap the night over coffee and bagels the next morning.

It wasn't a hard decision when last call rolled around, it's not like there was even a decision _to_ make. It was just kind of silently agreed upon that we'd walk the 15 blocks back to her apartment. So what if I tripped a few times as I was walking, and it's not a big deal that Quinn had to end up putting her arm around my waist to ensure I wouldn't actually fall. Totally normal friend activities and kind gestures.

But for some reason I contemplate telling Lauren the next part. Half of me thinks she already knows what happened last night because I'm convinced she has surveillance on me at all times and the other half knows that it's a ridiculous assumption but is still too drunk to say so. I weigh my options as Lauren prepares to move on from this topic. She seemed almost _too_ relieved that nothing happened. Did she honestly think something would?

"I think I tried to kiss her."

Lauren is silent, scary silent.

She's silent a lot, this is nothing that I should be worried about. She doesn't talk when she's listening to other people on the phone, and she doesn't speak when she's writing something down, and she doesn't speak when—fuck it. I should be worried.

"You think or you know?" she asks carefully. Annunciating each word as it would help me better understand what she's asking.

Let's entertain her question to the best of my ability. Some people tend to entirely black out, not remembering anything past their 3rd drink. Other people pretend to not remember anything because they embarrass themselves so bad that it's just easier to lie. Then there are people that freakishly remember every single detail. I have brown-outs, I remember some things in vivid color and others things are just black emptiness. For some reason, I could not get the image out of my head.

"It's hazy but yeah, I'm pretty sure I leaned in at one point."

She's stays silent for longer this time. In a weird way, it's sort of making my headache worse. It's like I can fully _hear_ my headache in all this silence.

This is just ridiculous.

"We were in her kitchen and she was trying to make me something to eat to soak up the alcohol," I start, I just wanted some pizza bagels, "and she was laughing because I had the hiccups," hiccups are like party favors from the devil, he's pure evil and hiccups are proof, "and it was just, I don't know, comforting." I finish lamely. I leave out the part where she tried to help me get rid of them for nearly ten minutes.

She nods slowly, "So you guys kissed?"

"No."

She waits for me to elaborate. Re-telling the story is somehow much more painful than just thinking about it in my head.

"I can't remember if she leaned in or not, I just know that she was the one to pull back."

"What'd she say?"

I close my eyes, the drunken memory still replaying on loop with little effort. The pain in her eyes, the confusion on my face, the regret swirling around in my mind as she stuttered out the words.

"I'm sorry, I can't," I repeat with my eyes closed, still seeing her lips say the words.

I think my hiccups went away after that.

"And you _still_ slept there?"

I nod, "God, I'm so pathetic. I don't even have feelings for her, it was the tequila and it tricked me into thinking it was something we both wanted."

Shit.

"Tequila?" she asks with a raised eyebrow, "Son of a bitch! I specifically told her," she begins to rant about how it all could have been prevented.

Did I want it to be prevented?

"Can you just like lay in here so I don't feel completely alone?"

She shuffles around and gets under the comforter on the side of the bed she's on. The left side. Which is weird because I woke up on the right side of Quinn's bed, too.

"I've been waiting on that couch since 3 am, sleeping is the only thing on my agenda for the rest of the day," she sighs out contently, "by the way, you were right, that couch is awful. You need a new one."

So she _did_ listen to my complaint about it the other morning.

"And I ordered a movie on pay-per-view," she tells me once she finally stops moving around.

I smile gratefully at the ceiling, I'm sure she would be much more comfortable in her own apartment.

"Are we friends?" I ask suddenly.

"That depends, does it come with a raise?"

I laugh. It should.

"I'm kidding, of course we're friends," she yawns.

I roll back over to my side, the advil is finally numbing the pain in my head and the water did wonders for my scratchy throat. If only there was some kind of memory eraser that I could get my hands on.

* * *

"I'm not going," I tell Lauren through a mouth full of Honey nut Cheerios; ironically.

She looks around the apartment, as if she doesn't know where she is, "I feel like it's 6 weeks ago."

"It might as well be," I mutter.

"Look, Rachel, she knows where you live. You really think that she's not going to come here if you skip today's appointment?"

After yesterday's nap and movie session with my assistant, I insisted that she call me Rachel when we were alone. That's what friends do, correct? My new friend Lauren makes a valid point.

"God, I hate her."

"She is kind of infuriatingly beautiful, isn't she?" Lauren muses.

"Yes, that too."

She smirks and I ignore her and my slip up.

"I don't want to go," I whine to her again as the car rolls up to the entrance of her building.

"She's called you four times since yesterday morning," Lauren states as if I haven't been aware of it.

Oh, I've been aware.

I groan as she opens the door, and practically pulls me out as I attempt to play ragdoll with her. Is it childish to sit Indian style in the middle of the sidewalk until I get my way?

She walks next to me across the marble flooring incase I should try to run again, stands next to me in the elevator as I hit my head repeatedly against the wall, pulls me past the receptionist's desk with ample force and pushes me into the room after she swings it open. I contemplate holding onto the door frame for dear life, it always works in movies. Doesn't it?

"Give it hell," she whispers before giving me one last nudge.

I don't like being her friend.

I shoot her a look and see the amused expression on her face. I throw my hands up and march towards the nasty couch and throw myself onto it, my face cuddling into the cushions, my back facing Quinn. I hastily kick my boots off before realizing that they're essential if I'm going to carry out a quick getaway plan. This is why I miss old Rachel Berry, she would have thought this entire thing out and been halfway to Los Angeles by now. I hear _her_ chuckle and I squirm closer into the crevice, as if I'm burrowing for winter. I make sure there is at least a little room for air. I'd hate to suffocate while ignoring Quinn, I've grown fond of the thought of living and wouldn't want to forfeit it on her account.

The door closes and I strain my ears to make out any possible clues that may let me know where she could possibly be in the office. I feel like the helpless victim in a _Jaws_ movie, dangling in the ocean as the shark lurks around me, waiting for the perfect time to strike. I'm actually kind of terrified. This couch provides me with _no_ safety or security as I wade in the metaphoric water of life or death.

Her hands are on my legs almost a second later and the feeling startles me but I refuse to move the rest of my body. I'm presuming that she's moving my feet so that she can sit and when I feel her drop my legs, I realize that it's just what she's doing.

"I called you," she says.

No shit.

"I had no idea," I mumble back.

"I wanted to see how you were feeling."

Like hell.

"About what?"

I'm waiting to see if she'll bring it up, or if she even remembers.

"The alcohol, the, well just everything," she replies.

"You're the one that got me drunk," I tell her bitterly.

"I'm sorry."

A hollow apology if I've ever heard one.

"I'm sure you are."

Oh, I'm wicked when I want to be.

"That's not fair," she replies.

It's not.

"Isn't it?"

"Rachel, you're my patient."

It astounds me how well she can state the obvious.

"I'm aware."

Boy, am I aware.

"You have to understand," she's pleading with me.

"I do, loud and clear. And for the record, I was beyond blacked out so don't think that you would have been something more than a drunken mistake and lapse in judgment."

I feel better after getting those few insults in there before she can reject me any further. The best offense is a good defense. Or something like that. I think that was a poster in Finn's bedroom in high school, doubtful that he even knew what it meant.

"Do you mean that?" she asks, I ignore the sadness behind her inquiry.

No.

"I've never meant anything more."

"Okay."

"Okay," I mimic.

I'm silent, I refuse to start any line of conversation. Instead I busy myself with thinking about some of the other posters in Finn's bedroom. It's kind of like my own personal _mailman_, it's distracting me from the entire situation at hand.

"I had fun though, on Saturday I mean," she finally breaks the ice, once again.

I think about Saturday instead now.

"So did I," I tell her, "Until you drugged me."

She scoffs out some laughter, "I didn't drug you."

Well she's guilty until proven innocent.

"I guess we'll never know."

She ignores me, "Everyone loved you, they're really glad that you decided to go."

I wonder if Santana did. We kind of became buddies after I told off another guy that tried to dance with Brittany at a different bar. She was kind of impressed that I _was_ in fact a bigger bitch than her, I don't know why I'm congratulating myself on that feat.

"Good for them," I reply dryly.

"Santana said that you're her new favorite person."

Luckily my face is buried deep within the cushions so that Quinn can't see the small smile on my face. I consider it a small victory on both counts.

"I'm sure she's being sarcastic," I grumble.

"I don't think so, she told me how you stood up for Brittany and she was really thankful."

"Those guys were scumbags," I recall.

"That's what she said," she's silent for a bit "And Puck won't stop gushing about you."

I roll my eyes. Of course not, I'm sure I got him non-stop amazing sex for like a week. During our game of guess-the-crazy's-problem, Quinn pointed out that Crystal absolutely had an inferiority complex and probably would overcompensate until Puck forgot that I even existed.

"Kurt is beside himself," she continues, "he's already started designing something for you to wear to one of your awards shows."

I remember.

"I forgot about that."

"That was nice of you," she seems genuinely proud that I've agreed to do this kind gesture for him and his business. It makes me kind of feel good about myself that she's proud of me.

"Whatever."

She tapping her fingers on my calf and I pretend not to notice.

"They want to get together again soon; maybe we can go to one of their apartments one night, or do dinner again? Maybe get together for New Years?"

She's rambling now, but I'm still stuck on one word.

"We?" I ask.

"Yeah as in all of us," she clarifies, a little uncertainly.

I mull it over in my head, she could have meant that. But I decide the only way I'm going to find out for sure is if I give her a hard time about it. Naturally. It _is_ after all the only way to get things done.

"You didn't mean it like that, you meant me and you."

I feel her fingers cease movement. She's so busted.

"Well, I guess. Like Saturday," she offers coolly, and she's back to finger tapping.

"Like how I was basically your pathetic attempt to avoid being the 9th wheel?"

"It wasn't like that," she begins to defend herself and it makes me nauseous for some reason.

"Sure it wasn't," I grumble into the couch, but making sure it was clear enough for her to hear.

"Okay fine, it was," she says suddenly, so not what I thought she would say.

I turn my head and my body follows so that I'm resting on my back now, looking at her as she avoids my gaze. Her hands are still gently resting on my legs but she's looking anywhere but me.

"I'm sick of always going out with one of them and being the 3rd wheel, everyone has someone else and I just wanted to, I don't know, for once dodge their sad eyes and questions about my personal life."

It makes my stomach turn that she has to deal with that when she goes out with them. I know what it's like to feel sad eyes on you at all times, it's not fun. I'm sure they don't do it on purpose, they just want to see her happy. What the fuck am I talking about? Enough of this.

"So you dragged me along?" the fire is back in my voice, no trace of any vulnerability.

She nods her head up and down guiltily.

"Why?" I ask, needing to know for some reason. Why me.

"I like spending time with you," she answers sheepishly.

While my heartbeat picks up at the admittance, I don't let it show.

"We spend 3 hours a week together," I remind her.

"You're forced to, for once I wanted to just, ya know, hang out."

Makes sense…I guess?

"You kind of forced me to dinner, too."

"I know, like you said, I'm pathetic."

She just looks so sad, it's depressing me. I'm not in the mood to be depressed _and_ spiteful.

"I didn't mean it," I offer.

She shakes her head, not even attempting to believe me, "You did, but it's okay."

I remember the subtle touches that lit my skin on fire, I can almost sense her gaze on me in the dimly lit restaurant, I can practically feel her breath on my neck when she'd whisper into my ear over the loud music.

"I had fun, I'm glad I went. I didn't mind being the 10th wheel for you, or whatever I was," I tell her genuinely.

"You're just saying that," she turns her head towards me, her hands are still resting on my legs, she squeezes gently before adding, "But thanks."

"I'm not, I mean it."

It's quiet again. I don't know how she always manages to do it but she always has me in an exposed position. I have nothing to say and now I'm facing her. I can see the tiredness under her eyes, her hair is wavy today, she's not as chipper as she normally is on Monday mornings. I wonder if she had a difficult patient in an earlier session, it becomes hard to swallow when I realize the difficult patient is always me.

"I don't do one night stands," she suddenly says, shattering the silence like she would a bay window. It had the same affect, too.

"I know."

She stares at me and it feels like there's deeper meaning to what she's saying. Therapists are always about deeper meanings and intrinsic values. It's like math problems for the soul. Apparently there is always an answer. It takes me a while before I realize what she's getting at.

"Oh god. I'm a jackass, Quinn. That's not what I was, it was just," I close my eyes and take a deep breath, "I was drunk and it was a stupid thing to even insinuate and it was an awkward position I put you in, I don't know what I was thinking. And you wouldn't have been—" I cut myself off, knowing that I've already talked myself into a hole I'll never be able to fill in.

I don't know how I allowed myself to get off on such a revealing tangent but once I realized what she was _actually_ getting at, I couldn't help myself. It's this damn weak position she has me in. How am I supposed to think coherently when my legs are blanketing her thighs?

"I just needed you to know, I didn't want to be _that_ and I'm already your therapist," she adds, a little ashamed, yet somehow it feels like such a slap in the face. The wake-up call of the century.

What the fuck had I been thinking?

"I feel like _such_ an asshole."

"No, don't. That's not what I'm trying to do," she replies, as if _she's_ the one being a nuisance in bringing it up.

"Maybe I should leave," I begin to stir in order to get up.

Her hands grip my legs, effectively stopping all movement.

"No. Please don't?"

"I'm embarrassed," I tell her honestly, "I'm a flirt when I drink tequila and I made you uncomfortable."

I feel like the asshole relative that always ruins Christmas by getting too drunk and revealing Santa isn't actually real. It's unrelated entirely, but the guilt is still there.

"You did warn me after all," she offers lightly, hoping I'll laugh along.

How could I laugh?

"That's no excuse."

She has a small smirk, "I was the one that insisted on giving you tequila in the first place."

She _does_ have a point.

"Still."

I struggle a little bit against her, trying to free my legs so that I can put my boots on.

"I didn't mind the flirting," she breathes out, before she looks over towards me. My breath gets caught in my throat, "if you recall, I flirted back."

I open and close my mouth a few times, searching for something, _anything_, to say back to her. Meaningful, witty, mean, clever, hurtful; literally anything. Nothing.

Am I speechless for the first time in my life?

She smiles, "What's the verdict?"

"I'm sorry?"

What the hell is she talking about?

"Are we friends? You told me that we'd see how Saturday night went, I hope I didn't mess it up too badly," she says.

_She _hopes that _she _didn't mess it up too badly? She must have some personality flaw that I'm unaware off, there is no other explanation as to why she is still single.

"We're friends," I tell her quietly.

Look at me, making friends and stuff.

"I'm glad," she smiles with her eyes, "What do you say we go do something friendly for today's session, coffee shop? Since _you_ didn't bring me my daily fix from Starbucks."

My mouth drops open.

"I'm kidding," she howls, "Besides, I'm sure it was Lauren that decided against it, she's probably mad that I injected you with tequila."

I laugh, "While that is true, I'm the one that brings you the coffee, not Lauren."

"I suppose next you're going to tell me that it was your idea in the first place?"

She laughs as she puts on her coat, I struggle with my boots.

"I am."

She stops and turns to look at me, the shock is evident and the blush is creeping up my cheeks.

"You know, why don't we send Erin out to get us drinks, I'm sure she'd love to get out from behind that desk."

"Um, okay? Any reason?"

I'm confused.

She shrugs and drops her coat before walking out of the office to tell her receptionist the order, I'm presuming.

"It looks cold out and I just kind of want to sit and lounge for the rest of the hour," she tells me as she moves towards the couch.

"Oh, okay. Yeah, that's fine," I reply, kicking my boots back towards the floor and taking my jacket off before jumping onto the couch.

I lift my feet up as she gets closer, she sits at the end of the couch and my calves rest atop of her thighs, once again. Her wrists relax near my ankles and it's weirdly comforting.

"So I have to admit, the way the tabloids always describe your nightlife persona, I was expecting you to punch one of the photographers or get arrested at some point in the night on Saturday."

My stomach feels like it's jiggling as I laugh. I'm once again lying on my back as my head leans on the headrest.

"I'm not a monster," I remind her, gesturing to myself as if to further prove my point. I think it does.

"I know that, but it got kind of intense after the restaurant."

I run a hand through my hair, recalling the scene. I blamed the hostess who had been eyeing me like a piece of steak when I arrived at the restaurant. She absolutely called people. I didn't realize I was leading the group right into the literal concrete jungle. I was more upset that they ruined the nice buzz I had working.

"Yeah, luckily Noah was there and you tend to have a calming presence, so that helped."

She smiles and I see her teeth, she must bleach them.

"It was surreal, I can't believe you deal with that almost every time you go out."

It's not so much surreal to me anymore, it's overwhelming if not annoying.

"After a while you get used to it, occasionally you have a bad day and they piss you off, that's normally when I snap."

She purses her lips. Oh no, here it comes.

"So do you trust me yet? I mean, we're friends now right? Can we talk about the arrest?" she's strangely good at being sneaky in order to segue into more pressing matters.

I bet she's working on a flow chart of conversation topics when I walk into her office before every session.

I roll my eyes playfully, "Which one?"

She looks pleased with her ability to get what she wants out of me. It won't kill me to tell her some things. It's her job right?

"Let's start with the restraining order from the paparazzi, then we'll work up to the Resisting Arrest charge and the Drunk and Disorderly."

I laugh out loud.

"Actually those ones are all related."

I find it particularly badass that I have a rap sheet. Who would have thought?

"What?"

I nod.

"How are they all related?"

I suck in some breath, my lungs are no longer in shape for longwinded explanations.

"It happened about five months ago, in July, I was at a launch party for Jesse's new album, ya know the wine and dine, schmooze with the record execs type of thing. I was exhausted, I'd just put in a 12 hour day at the recording studio and I was running on barely any sleep."

"Recipe for disaster," Quinn comments.

I find it kind of cute that she's trying to sympathize with me before even knowing the story.

"Anyway, I'd left a little early and naturally there were thousands of flashes waiting for me, my driver was stuck in traffic around the block so I began walking towards him, one of the assholes followed me and I tried to ignore him, I really did."

"What was he saying?"

"He brought up my fathers."

Quinn winces.

"Once he saw me react, he pressed on until I busted his lip, gave him a black eye and smashed his camera on the sidewalk."

"Good, that asshole deserved i."

She seems proud. I smile a bit before I dive back into the memory.

"Yes well, he called the cops and demanded I be arrested for assault and battery, when he was the one that was assaulting me to begin with. They smelled the alcohol on my breath and because he was the one bleeding, they tried to arrest me. When I refused, they slapped the cuffs on me anyway and threw me in the back of a police car."

"I can't believe that."

"Yeah well, no one does. They like to imagine that I was black out drunk, hitting innocent people with a baseball bat and flashing cars as they drove by."

I remember Jesse calling me the following morning asking me why I would beat up a bunch of elderly people and flash a group of children. I wouldn't talk to him for at least three days.

"So he got a restraining order against you?"

"Yup, and the asshole sued me and won," I recall bitterly. His smug smile in court still makes me angry.

"That's not right."

I shrug, "My court date was a month and a half ago, they never gave me a breathalyzer so there was no way to prove that I was even drinking, mind you, I only had two glasses of wine with dinner. And once the judge learned of the circumstances surrounding the situation he dropped the resisting arrest charge and instead suggested therapy, an alternative way to express my pent up aggression I suppose. I guess she was just looking out for me in a way."

I still think the therapy bribe was a little much.

"And now you're here," she finishes.

"Now I'm here."

She runs her hand up and down my shin a few times.

"Wow, Rach. And the other assaults?" she asks.

"All happened before that incident."

"Asshole photographers," she mutters.

"Every single one of them."

"I'm sorry," she tells me softly, sincerely.

"It's not your fault."

There's a soft knock on the door.

I go to lift my legs for Quinn to get up and answer the door, but she presses down.

"Come in," she calls.

Erin peeks her head through the door before fully entering the room. She hands Quinn the two cups of hot coffee. I watch Erin's eyes as they see how we're both sitting on the couch. It feels natural but it most definitely is not the way a therapist and their patient should be sitting. I'm suddenly self-conscious.

Quinn catches her looking, "Thank you, Erin."

The receptionist walks out of the door and closes it behind her.

"That was fast," I comment.

"There's a coffee place on one of the lower floors."

I nod and take a sip, almost spitting it out when I don't taste the bitter coffee.

"I think she gave me yours," I reach my hand out in order to swap cups.

She smiles and takes a sip from her own.

"It's hot chocolate," she tells me after swallowing.

"You're serious?"

She nods with a smile on her face, "I like hot chocolate."

"You're such a little kid."

Her innocence is charming.

"Oh please, you know you love it too."

I shake my head and take another sip, it _is_ a nice change from the daily grind, pun absolutely intended.

It's silent for a while, the two of us are enjoying our hot chocolate. I'm sitting up at this point but my ankles are still on her. I look around the room, she did have excellent taste in décor. But it was missing something.

"You need to spruce up your office, Christmas is next week and it's depressing in here."

She rolls her eyes, "Not all of my patients would appreciate that."

"I'm sure they would; just throw a menorah on the windowsill and a small tree on your coffee table. Simple."

"My apartment is decorated," she counters.

"I noticed."

Her Christmas tree was decorated in white lights and had simple plain colored ornaments. Mostly they were gold or silver. A few red bows and candy canes scattered throughout. It was exactly how I would picture Quinn Fabray's Christmas tree. The alcohol still stubbornly lingering in my system mixed with the image of Quinn decorating a tree by herself made me entirely too nauseous on the way back to my own apartment.

She clears her throat uncomfortably and shifts a little under my legs. I change the subject.

"And how about some light holiday music, too? Seriously Fabray, get in the spirit."

She looks at me incredulously and I stick my tongue out.

"I am in the spirit, what are your plans for Christmas?" she asks.

"Egg nog."

She laughs, raising an eyebrow, how did she get them so perfect anyway, "Egg nog?"

"Yup, gallons of egg nog."

She shakes her head.

"Where are you spending the Holidays?" she asks.

"My apartment."

"By yourself?"

I nod. I wasn't always this pathetic. Last Christmas I spent it in Mexico with Tristan, and before that I'd spend it with Jesse. Jesse is on tour for a few months and Tristan and I are no longer contracted to each other. Which reminds me, our breakup is supposed to be announced later. This should make for a fun week. But I refuse to have my staff work for me on the days leading up to and after Christmas and that's something I'll never budge on.

Her eyes are sad and they're making me feel even more pathetic.

"What are you doing?" I ask, hoping to get the attention off of me.

"Kurt always throws a Christmas Eve party, and on Christmas I normally travel around to see everyone," she shrugs, "I guess it's not really anything special."

"At least you have places to go."

She looks down, pulling at the hot sleeve that's wrapped around the cup.

"Shelby invited me to come see them for Christmas."

I sit up straighter.

"That's great."

"I don't know," I can tell it's something she wants to do but is afraid.

"Are we really going to start this again?"

"Well what about you? You have somewhere to go," she's trying to bring the attention on me.

"Don't even say what I think you're insinuating," I level her with a glare that I hope will scare her enough to not pursue the topic any further.

"He's your father, Rachel. He misses you."

"And Beth misses you," I counter.

"It's not the same."

"Sure it is," I attempt stubbornly, I know it's not at all the same.

"What does he do on Christmas?" her question is light, she's genuinely curious.

"Him and my dad go to—Oh, god," I choke out, not even realizing that I'd started to speak in present tense.

I close my eyes and focus on breathing. For something that keeps us alive, it sure is hard to do sometimes.

I let out a shaky breath, "Once I stopped coming home, they would come out here and visit me, and then my Dad got sick and it was too much, too hard for him to make the trip," I trail off.

The tears lined up in the corners of my eyes are burning, if I blink they'll cascade down my cheeks similar to a water fall, my nose is beginning to sting from the effort it's taking to keep them at bay.

"I don't know what my father does now," I admit shamefully, "I've never been able to ask."

"When did your Dad pass away?" she asks, treading lightly.

I look up, swiping a few of the tears that have managed to escape to my cheek, "It'll be three years in January," I tell her.

"Maybe it's time to go back?"

"No, I can't," I shake my head adamantly.

"Why?"

"He's probably ashamed, disappointed in me for not being there, for who I've become."

He acted like he wasn't upset with the fact that I went back to meet Beth, but I know it devastated him that I didn't even tell him I was there until I landed safely back in New York.

"I don't think you're all that bad."

I try to laugh and it sounds pitiful, "You're paid to say that."

"I mean it."

I stretch forward and place the hot chocolate on the edge of the coffee table, needing both hands to keep my cheeks clean.

"Where did you get that watch?" she asks after some silence.

"What?"

"I noticed before that you were holding onto it when you were telling me how you got arrested."

I look down at the watch on my left wrist, the one I'm still holding onto.

"My Dad gave it to me, 3 years ago for Hanukah."

"It's beautiful," she breaths out.

I swallow, my index finger sliding in between the back of the watch and my wrist, the script is faint but I can still feel it.

_My Little Star_

It was always his special nickname for me.

"It's the last thing he gave me before he died."

The truth is too much; the weight of it has crushed me for years, the elegant inscription burning its mark on my delicate wrist since I've put it on. My body feels too frail to move, too fragile to stop myself from crying finally.

Quinn's hand pulls me up, forcefully, but it's the only way since my body is not making any effort to oblige. Her arms are on my back, my eyes are in her neck, her chin is protecting my shoulder and my hands are in fists around her waist.

"It's okay," she whispers, "It's okay, Rach."

I'm faintly aware of the circles she's rubbing over my back, I grip her tighter as sobs rake through my body. I'm too far gone to care or fight the walls that are tumbling down under her embrace. It's been far too long since I've let myself cry or feel emotion.

I want to snap at her, I want to make her feel bad about herself. I want to think of something so cruel that it stabs right into her heart and makes her feel worse than I do. I want to rub something in her face just so I'll feel better about myself.

There's a number of things I could bring up. Beth, her father, her mother, her sexuality, who she was in high school. There's a number of things I know that I can bring up that would choke her.

I open my mouth against the porcelain skin of her neck.

"Fix me."


	8. Chapter 8

"This is all her fucking fault, you know that right?" I turn towards my assistant, pointing the bottle at her.

I'm a little dizzy, so I hope I pointed it at the right person. There's like two of her.

"Yes, I know. Please if you could just put the bottle down before you drop it, you've already broken one," she tries.

I think she's insinuating that I'm drunk and that it was _my_ fault that she was clumsy.

"You bumped into me, that's why it fell over," I argue as I take another sip from the new bottle.

It stings my throat as it travels through my body. I should be numb to it by now. And then I remember that it's wine and wonder what my fans would think of me. They'd probably call me a wimp. Who gets toasted on Wine? I wish it was something badass like _Jack Daniels. _I could wear the leather studded jacket from my third tour and no one could question my defiance and unruly nature.

"I was standing over here when it fell," she retorts.

I give her a look, I can feel myself swaying, "What was that?"

"You're right, it was my fault, I knocked the bottle out of your hand," she sighs.

That's better.

"Let's go out," I say suddenly, needing to get out of my apartment.

It's suffocating me.

"You're drunk," she accuses.

"I am most certainly not."

The nerve she has.

"You can't even stand straight, your eyes are so glazed over that I'm not even sure you're looking at me, and you're starting to voice your inside-the-mind thoughts. I don't think you need anymore. And you auctioned the leather jacket to a charity."

So now she's a mind reader too?

"This is all her fault," I repeat.

"Yes, I know."

It's kind of fun to try and count how many seconds I can get up to between something I say and her systematic responses to me. I got to 1 Miss that time. Not even a full Mississippi. She's not even attempting to argue with me anymore.

"She brought up my Dad."

That wasn't very nice of her to do that.

"Yes, and now you've been drinking yourself unconscious every night. Maybe you should sleep it off?"

It hasn't been _every_ night. And I certainly haven't been unconscious either.

"Sleep is for the weak."

"I'm pretty sure it's—"

"Shut up."

I sprawl out on the couch, balancing the wine bottle on my stomach. It's quite entertaining.

"Rachel, if I don't leave now I'm going to be late for dinner with my boyfriend."

I bet her boyfriend is also a mind reader. They probably silently communicate in restaurants, makes me sick.

"So then leave now."

"I don't want to leave you alone."

I sit up, remembering to grab the bottle this time and put it on the coffee table. I'm drunk, but not drunk enough to not know what's going on. I'm being an angry drunk on purpose. I run my hand over my face, hoping my acting skills are still above par, Lauren needs to leave so I can drink more.

"I'll be fine, I'll take a bath and watch TV until I fall asleep."

"You're going to drown."

"I'm an incredible swimmer," I defend myself.

"You're almost 3 bottles of wine deep and I don't trust you alone."

They're little bottles. She makes me sound like a lush.

"I'm not a child."

She opens her mouth, closes it and reopens it again, "Isn't there anywhere you could go? A friend or something?"

"You're the one with my agenda and phone book, you tell me," I reply bitterly.

She sighs, running a hand through her hair, she stands up, "Okay fine, go draw yourself a bath, I'll figure something out."

"I'll come to dinner with you," I tease.

"You're on crack."

She's so sick of me.

It takes me a few tries but I finally manage to get off the couch. I refused to take her hand when she tried to help me up; I wanted to prove that I could do it by myself. I neglect the wine bottle and go straight into the master bathroom, going right for the bath salts that I need my body soaked in immediately. The temperature of the water is finally to my liking and I decide to dim the lights for ambience, not too low or I'll fall asleep and drown like Lauren's prediction. I refuse to allow her to be right.

I settle the back of my head against the marble tub and close my eyes.

Everything is just so fucked up.

Ever since I walked into that office exactly 46 days ago my life hasn't been the same. At least then I knew who I was, a cold hearted bitch. Now I'm just all over the place, showing emotion, feeling things, being nice, making friends. Who am I becoming?

I haven't had sex in over a month and my body is constantly a hormonal battlefield. I feel Quinn's eyes on me continually, even if they aren't there; judging me, watching me. She's the reason I do half the things that I do, she's the reason I started being nicer to my staff, she's the reason I went to dinner with people I never wanted to see again, she's the reason I opened up about my father's death. My father's death, it started this entire spiral downfall in the first place and now it's happening again.

It was 4 o'clock on a random January morning when I got the phone call that my father was in the hospital again, that he wasn't doing well, that he had hours to live. I made it to the airport in record time, which was saying something in the state of New York. I stared at the board, the board that held the departures and I considered turning around and leaving. I thought about not going at all, sending a card, maybe. I wanted nothing to do with the state of Ohio, that town of Lima, that neighborhood of non-believers.

I'd left Lima halfway through the summer; the morning after going to Puck's graduation party, the morning after Finn broke up with me because he couldn't handle the distance, the morning after Quinn told me she hoped I wouldn't make it in New York. My fathers drove me that morning, an hour earlier than we'd planned to leave, just so I could get out of that state an hour sooner. The Volvo packed to the ceiling with clothes and possessions that were too precious to leave behind. The apartment my fathers purchased next to campus was quaint and tiny, but the perfect size for me. Everyone at my school was like me; everyone had a similar story to mine. It wasn't hard to make friends and forget about all the negative that I'd dealt with my entire life. No one slushied me between classes, no one had cruel nicknames dancing on the tip of their tongues, no one rolled their eyes when I'd suggest changes in our classes or seminars. I was respected, and I was loved.

I'd gone back once, Christmas break my Freshman year, it felt like a right of passage every college student went through. Coming back for their first holiday break, sharing college stories with old friends and sleeping in your old bed felt great because part of you missed it. It wasn't like that for me, in fact, I couldn't wait to get back to everyone in New York, I left the morning after Christmas and didn't look back. The following years Christmas was spent in New York, the way it should always be spent. Rockefeller tree, watching the ice skaters, Macy's day parade, shopping on 5th; the works. I graduated from college, got a role on Broadway, moved into a new and bigger loft, and started to call home less and less. I'd learned of my Dad's sickness the morning after I'd won a Grammy, I didn't see him until the morning he died. Nearly 6 months between. The watch I wear on my wrist was sent to me the last night of Hanukah that year, which was always his holiday. If it's not on my wrist, it's in my purse.

There are a lot of things I regret in my life, but by far my biggest regret is not being there for my Dad during that time. Which keeps me away from my Daddy now, his disappointment was never spoken aloud but I know it's there. How could it not be?

And now my life is fucked up even further. The person I blame for everything, the person who I've always blamed, is now in my life and I don't want her out of it. She's the one person that caused me to leave Lima so hastily and never look back, she's the voice I heard that told me I couldn't do something, her eyes were the judgmental ones that haunted me every day, she was to blame when everything fell apart. And now she's my only life float, I feel like I'm going to drown without her.

How could someone that I've hated for so long become someone that I can't live without?

It gives me a headache to think about; I slide further into the bathtub and close my eyes. I hear Lauren on the phone while she shuffles about the apartment, I faintly hear my neighbor above me yelling at her kids to get in the shower, and I can vaguely hear the sounds of West Village through my closed window.

I don't know how long I'm in the bath tub for; all I know is that I feel significantly more relaxed now than I did earlier. The towel wraps around me snugly and I think about what clothing I'm going to put on when I hear it, the cough that definitely doesn't belong to Lauren.

"Hello?" I yell timidly.

My mind races with various scenarios that are about to play out, homicidal maniacs, stalker fans, and of course some kind of burglar that's about to swipe me clean. They all cross my vivid imagination. Couldn't they have picked a better time to do this? Maybe not when I was both physically and emotionally vulnerable? I'm naked for Christ's sake.

"It's Quinn."

"What the hell are you doing here?" I yell, still not entirely convinced.

The killer could have a voice changer.

"Lauren called me."

"God Dammit," I mumble, "I'll be right there!" I shout before slamming my bedroom door shut, I throw the towel off of me and start looking around for the clothes I'd picked out moments ago. I settle for something completely opposite of what I was planning on in my haste. And I'm pissed, I wanted to wear the black yoga pants, not the grey ones.

I'm careful when I walk down the dark wooden floors barefoot because I've fallen once or twice while my feet were still wet and turn the corner to find Quinn sitting on the couch.

I'm relieved it's actually not a serial killer. Unless, she _is_ the serial killer.

"Lauren called you?" I ask again.

She nods, rubbing her hands up and down her jeans, "About 15 minutes ago she called me, she just let me in and left maybe 5 minutes ago," she replies.

Lauren is sneaky, and she's going to have hell to pay tomorrow.

_Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, Lauren. _

I hope she mind read the hell out of that.

"She shouldn't have called you," I point out.

"She didn't know who else to call."

"Well you can leave now," I point towards the door, even taking a few steps towards it for effect.

Do I want her to go?

She doesn't move, "I think I better stay."

"I didn't invite you into my home," I reply.

I really need a safe house, or maybe a panic room. Yeah, a panic room could have come in handy. I'll have to tell Lauren to arrange some contractors for me, once I start speaking to her again.

"Is it okay if I stay anyway?"

I watch as her eyes focus on something just beyond my shoulder, I turn my head to see what she's staring at. The three wine bottles are on the island next to the kitchen, I turn back to see her eyes on me.

"You always make house calls to your patients?"

She shifts awkwardly and averts her eyes.

"No."

"So then why are you here?" I question.

"I thought we were friends."

Touché Fabray.

"You're not my friend."

"You told me that we were the other day."

Hearsay.

"I lied," I cross my arms around my chest.

"You're lying now," she challenges.

Erroneous.

"Get out of my apartment."

She shakes her head no.

Rude.

"You're drunk and from what I just found out, you have been for the past week or so, Lauren is worried about you and so am I."

Dammit, Lauren.

"I'm not your responsibility," that took a little more effort to get out than I would have liked.

"I know, but I care about you."

She's still sitting on the couch as I loom over her, I'm trying to intimidate her but it's not working. She's like an iron wall.

"If you cared about me you'd leave me alone."

"You don't mean that," she answers confidently, not even entertaining the idea.

God, how does she know?

"This is all your fault," I spit back.

I feel like I've said these words ten times in the past hour, finally the right person is hearing them.

"I know."

"I'll never be able to forgive you, you're the reason my father died," I yell at her, letting my emotions take hold and run wild.

"No, I'm not," she stands.

She captures my wrists in her hands and I desperately try to struggle away from her.

"Yes you are, he died and he's not here anymore and there's nothing I can do about it."

She finally lets go of me.

"So your next logical thought is to blame me?"

I'm enraged.

"Fuck you, Quinn."

I turn on my heel and walk down the hallway to my bedroom, refusing to be in the same room as her. I sense her behind me as I reach my bed.

"Don't!" I shout, turning around.

She stops short just before entering my room.

"Don't come in this room, I mean it," I reiterate.

Her shoulders slump and she leans against the doorframe.

"Why can't—"

"For once will you listen to me and not ask so many God damn questions? Don't come in here means don't come in here."

She's deaf, I'm sure of it.

"I don't under—"

"You don't have to understand, I don't want you in my room."

She sighs out and looks around, I'm about to make her close her eyes. I don't want her seeing my bedroom. The only place in my life that Quinn hasn't invaded. She's already set up camp in my mind.

"Will you come out here so we can talk?" she asks more softly.

"I'm tired of talking."

I'm physically exhausted from it.

"But drinking suits you fine?"

The nerve.

Why do my two newest friends have such balls? This is why I need the leather jacket and Jack Daniels. Nobody fucks with someone in a leather jacket; it's like the cardinal rule. And if she did, well then I could throw the Jack Daniel's bottle at her head.

"You can't talk to me like that."

If she asks me _why_, I swear to God.

She scoffs with laughter, "Why? I'm not your therapist right now—"

I look around the room for anything that could resemble a bottle of Jack Daniels.

"Screw you."

"You're insufferable right now," she grunts and shouts at the same time.

I wonder if she'd see that vase of flowers coming at her, I'd rather her be caught off guard. I need a trap door. Or like, a taser gun.

"And I hate you," I fire back.

Two can play this game, Fabray.

It doesn't seem to affect her though. Of course it wouldn't.

"You've always hated me," she sneers.

"For good reason," I add.

"I've never hated you," she replies a little softer.

Oh, puh-lease.

She's actually listening to me as she stands just beyond the entrance to my room.

I scoff, "You've had no reason to hate me."

"You stole my boyfriend and then dated him for 2 years."

"So what, you weren't even into him," I roll my eyes, getting ready to attack her for still living in the past.

"I was into you!"

Her words stop me; I turn slowly to find her biting her lip.

"You're right, I should leave," she announces before turning around and walking back the way she came.

"OH hell no, you don't get to say that and then just leave," I yell as I practically run after her.

I reach her just as she's at the door.

"What the fuck was that supposed to mean?"

My palm pushes against the door as I slide between the two of them.

"Nothing, I just got caught in the moment," she averts her eyes and backs away.

Getting caught up in the moment is kissing your significant other during a heated argument, or flipping off someone that just cut you off on the BQE . You don't admit something like that and blame it on the moment.

"That's bullshit."

"I need a drink."

"On the counter, glasses are above the sink," I reply absently as she walks towards the kitchen. She forgoes the glass and puts the bottle to her lips.

"Answer me, Fabray."

The liquid is still sliding down her throat, she finally rips it away and sets the bottle back on the counter, it wobbles for a few seconds and I realize that she's finished it. She begins picking up and surveying the other two bottles on the counter.

"Wine cabinet," I point in the general direction.

She walks over to the freestanding cabinet that holds my wine collection and blindly grabs one. I'm waiting for her with the wine opener.

I hand her the bottle when I'm done opening it and she begins drinking it out of the bottle again.

She tears it away from her mouth again after an even longer amount of time, breathing heavily and her cheeks are flushed.

"Do you remember Noah's Graduation party?" I suddenly ask, recalling her cheeks just as flushed that night.

She nods, her chest heaving in and out as her eyes water from the wine.

"Why did you say it?" I ask, snatching the bottle from her hands.

She turns away from me and begins pacing the area rug in the living room, the space between the coffee table and the flat screen.

"I don't remember what I said," she replies weakly.

"You're a horrible liar."

"Then how could you not see that I was lying back then?" her eyes grow slightly wider, "Kind of, I don't know," she runs her fingers through her hair, rubbing her eyes with the base of her palms.

"How long did you have a crush on me?"

She stops her pacing and meets my eyes.

"What are—"

"Kurt brought it up, remember?"

She sits on the loveseat, her head in between her hands.

"I don't know," she mumbles.

"Why didn't you want me to make it in New York?"

Her head snaps up, she's crying, "I knew you would."

"So you just wanted to get one last little jab in there?" I ask bitterly, taking the necessary steps in order to stand in front of her, I hold the bottle out for her to take.

She stays silent but accepts the bottle and drinks some more. She pulls my hand and I fall onto the couch next to her.

"I need you."

"And I need you to answer my questions." I'm growing impatient.

"No, I need you. I need you to come to Ohio with me. I can't do it alone, I need you with me."

"Fuck no," I start to stand.

She halts my movements by squeezing my wrist, "Rachel, please."

It's heartbreaking how desperate she looks right now.

"Why should I do anything for you?"

I'm interested to hear her reasoning for this.

"Because deep down, you want to see your father and you're waiting for someone to force you."

Damn her for bringing up my father again. And especially since she knows how I feel about it.

"You can't force me to do anything."

"Then do it for Beth."

Okay and damn her for using that child against me.

"Don't use her to guilt trip me."

"I'm sorry."

She doesn't seem very sorry.

She takes another sip from the bottle before I grab it out of her hands in order to take a hefty gulp myself.

"Please consider it," she pleads.

"I just did."

"And?"

"I can't," I lean back against the cushion.

Her head drops into her hands again.

I look away, I can't see her like this. It's like finding out your favorite superhero is just someone in an elaborate Halloween costume with a cape.

"I want to see my daughter and the only way I'll be able to do it is if you're there with me."

I contemplate it, I really do. I don't know how I can say no to her but I don't know how I can say yes either.

She looks up sharply, "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness for how I've treated you in the past, and I don't even deserve you at all, but I can't do this without you. And I want to be there for you when you go back home, think of it as an assignment if you have to."

I'm seconds from caving.

"Now you're throwing the assignment card at me?"

"I'd rather not, I wish that you would come willingly," she finally leans back onto the cushion next to me, "Rachel, I need you like I've never needed anyone before in my life."

I close my eyes, her words choking me into silence.

"And not just to go back to Ohio," she adds, softly. Honestly.

I hand her the bottle again and we stay like that on the loveseat for a while, passing the bottle of wine back and forth silently. Eventually her head lulls onto my shoulder and I can't help myself when I take her wrist and trace over the elegantly scripted ink on her skin.

"What's this for?" I ask, my fingertip still tracing it. My voice is a little raspy from not using it for a while.

"It's a B, for Beth"

It's beautiful.

"When did you get it?" I find myself asking.

"When I was a freshman in College, my roommate took me."

Ah, the infamous roommate. Kate, was it?

"Did you tell her what it was for?"

"No, it's one of the reasons we broke up so many times, once she found out. She didn't much enjoy that I hid the fact that I had a child somewhere in the world."

She seems ignorant. And stuck-up. And everything that isn't right for a person like Quinn Fabray. Maybe she could use a good Jack Daniel's bottle to the head.

"So you _did_ date her?" I ask, realizing there was a much bigger picture than the roommate not approving of the child.

She nods into me, laughing lightly. I'm still tracing the script on her wrist.

"You were right, first and last girlfriend," she says quietly.

I can't believe I was _actually _right. Another thought pops into my head, it's making me nauseous.

"So that's the one you're still hung up on? The one that won't allow you to have any one night stands?"

I don't know what makes me ask it but I know I need to know.

It will put a serious damper on my plan to seek out the girl and make her pay for breaking Quinn's heart. I have friends in high places that owe me big favors.

"No."

I'm silent.

"You remember the two reasons I gave you that session right? Either you are still hung up on someone or there's someone you could never have—"

"I remember," she says simply.

My mind is playing tricks on me; it's the only explanation for her sudden shift towards me.

I close my eyes, hoping it will steady my breathing. She yawns and I find myself catching it.

"I didn't want you to make it in New York because I wanted you to come back to me in Ohio," she says softly just as I'm on the edge of unconsciousness.

* * *

The trees whip by me faster than I'd like them to, it's not their fault though so I remind myself for the 3rd time not to get mad at them. It's windy, one of those fierce winds that don't mind hurting any exposed skin that happens to be in their path. It's going to snow, my sixth sense combined with my knowledge of the fickle weather here in Lima tells me that. The sky is dark and it's only mid morning, the lingering snow on the ground is starting to become dirty and slushy, the worst kind of snow. A good coat is what this god forsaken town needs right now. Anything to distract from the hell that it is, that's all snow is after all, a temporary mask.

The seat warmers feel nice on my body and it's further reassurance for me that it's teeth chattering cold outside of the safe interior of the black rental car. It's bright in the passenger seat, I'm not used to sitting this close to the road, and I'm definitely not used to looking out of clear windows. The back seats of the town cars and limos are dark and depressing, the tinted windows obscuring my view of the outside world. The soft voice on the radio is different but I recognize it. It's a talk news radio station, probably the only station of its caliber. In my early high school years, still too young to drive myself to school but with far too much pride to take the school bus, my father would take me on his way to work. This station would be on until I mindlessly hit the button that would provide me with instant lyrical satisfaction. I roll my head over and study Quinn. I wonder if she's been conditioned to tune into this radio station, something like Pavlov's dog. I can almost imagine her in the car with her father, no option of changing the station, no hope of a normal karaoke driving experience. I further wonder if she finds comfort in it, or if it's because she's never known anything other than driving through Lima while listening to why the price of oil was rising.

The windshield wipers break my concentration and thought process. If my singing career comes to an untimely death, I'd make a fabulous weather reporter. The snow has begun to fall, it appears as rain on the windshield, but within 2 hours it will begin to stick.

"How long are we going to be driving around the inevitable?" I finally ask.

It's only been two and a half hours since we've landed, two hours since we've pulled away from the airport, and an hour and thirty minutes since we've been driving around the outskirts of Lima, Ohio.

She takes a break from twisting her white knuckles around the steering wheel and turns to me with a semi-amused expression. It's the first time either one of us has spoken.

"That depends, are you sober yet?"

She thinks she's clever, she truly does.

I give her an exaggerated huff and look back out the window.

"I told you I don't like flying," I mumble.

I told her like twelve times.

She wants to make a joke, I know she does.

"I know, I have the nail marks on my arm to prove it."

I glare at her. She told me she didn't mind.

"You chose the wrong line of work if you don't like to fly," she adds.

"For your information, if I go on tour, I'm on a bus. I try to limit my flying to once a month, if it's possible."

"So why didn't we just drive here?"

"Spend 10 hours in a car with you? No, thank you."

She finds this funny.

"Rachel, we're spending three days together."

I'm silent, she has a point. She seems to know it too. I change the subject.

"You should have been paying more attention to me if you didn't want me to drink on the plane."

"I'm not getting into this argument again with you," she sighs, but I think she welcomes the banter. I know I do.

"Because you know I'm right," I state.

"No. You are not right. _You_ somehow shamelessly flirted the flight attendant into making all of your drinks doubles, and don't think I'm stupid enough to believe you were innocently sleeping when I went to the bathroom."

Shit, I was convinced she'd bought that I was passed out.

"So don't even," she finishes.

"All horrendous accusations and I'm deeply offended."

She smiles at me, it's slightly mesmerizing. I wonder if it's because I'm acting like Ohio's Rachel Berry.

"Don't even think about drinking the entire time you're here. I didn't even know you were a drinker."

"Only when I'm nervous, or when I fly. Or when I have to deal with my past, sometimes on holidays."

She levels me with a glare that doesn't seem as threatening as it did in high school. I still shut up.

"Fine, I won't drink away our romantic getaway you practically forced on me." I hope she hears the sarcasm loud and clear.

"You make it seem like I'm some kind of monster."

"You're not?" I feign shock and then giggle to myself because she's so easy to fluster.

She glares at me again.

"You're my therapist, I'm allowed to be rude to you," I grin.

"I'm not your therapist this weekend, how many times have we been over this?"

"But it's 11:05 on a Friday, we're technically in session," I point out.

She sighs and turns up the volume on the radio, or should I say, monotone voice talking about the President's health care reform. I think she's trying to ignore me. I don't like being ignored.

"Your dad make you listen to this when you were an evil adolescent?"

She laughs humorlessly, "You still think I'm evil."

"Well that's true and a—"

"Yes, my dad listened to this station when I was younger," she cuts me off before I can really lay into her.

"Are you trying to impress him? Maybe run into him and recite some Dow Jones numbers, give him your take on the economy?"

"Your defense mechanisms are text book," she comments.

"It's therapeutic," I shrug and glance back out the window.

"Is this your admittance that I'm actually doing my job?"

"No, I think you're a terrible therapist, making fun of you is the therapeutic part."

Quinn doesn't say anything and I smile to myself, it truly is entertaining to get her riled up. She leans forward and hits a few buttons until something coherent comes through the station.

"Finally," I sigh as I lean back into my seat, "It _is_ Christmas Eve after all, a little holiday music wouldn't kill you."

"If you had a problem with it, why didn't you say something sooner? I wasn't even paying attention to what was on, it was just familiar," she says as she's stopped at a light, instead of turning to look at me like she's done for the past few red lights, she looks out of her window instead.

I miss her eyes.

"It didn't bother me," I tell the silence in the car, I doubt she's even listening anymore at this point.

Finally she turns to look at me, "I know that you're scared to go home so I was just giving you some more time. That's why I've been driving in circles. And because I don't want you to be buzzed when you see your dad."

I stifle some laughter, her intentions were at least chivalrous.

"I appreciate the effort."

She surveys me, her lower lip held captive between her bleached white teeth. There's no way teeth can be that white, then again it _is_ Quinn Fabray we're talking about here.

"Really, I mean it," I add, "Thank you."

She shows a tentative smile and her gaze softens a bit.

"You ready?" she asks.

I pout, "Unless you have pint of Whiskey hidden somewhere in this car, I guess I have no choice."

She looks horrified for a minute before she realizes that I'm joking about the alcohol. The light turns green and I have to clear my throat and point to the light for Quinn to get the hint and drive.

We continue in silence, making our way through the familiar streets of our childhood. It's like literally driving down memory lane. We both smile as we drive by a group of kids having a snowball fight and I know she's also thinking about the time the glee kids all decided to hang out on a snow day during senior year, the girls and Kurt warding off the boys in a snow ball fight that lasted almost two hours. Our smiles get wider when we pass a few people decorating a snowman in their front yard, no doubt reminding us of where Noah put the carrots on the Glee snow family we made before Brittany's mom made us homemade hot chocolate. When we pass by McKinley high school, Quinn grimaces as she sees Coach Sylvester's car parked near the entrance to the school, I grimace for an entirely different reason.

We pass the familiar houses that once sheltered our dysfunctional glee members, wondering if their parents still occupied the homes or moved on to bigger and better things. The sense of nostalgia overcomes me stronger than I ever thought possible and I'm suddenly wishing more than anything that I could be in high school again, looking forward to Regionals and when my dream of becoming famous was something that was a distant hope and not a crushing reality.

I reach over the center console and before I even have to make the effort, Quinn's hand laces between mine and I feel a sigh of relief. There's nothing worse in the world than wishing for something that will never come true. When I was in high school I couldn't wait to leave, and now that I'm where I always wanted to be, I want nothing more than to go back, even if it means enduring the emotional torture that doesn't seem all that bad anymore.

When a tear slides down my cheek, I cover it up by coughing and pray that the girl next to me doesn't notice. I know she does because I feel her hand squeeze mine momentarily as we round the corner of my old street. She pulls up to the curb and of course there is no snowman decorated in fabulous scarves and hats, there's no snow angels adorning the front lawn, and there definitely isn't a makeshift snow fort built between the garage and the car. The sight makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry until the tears make my face unrecognizable to myself in the mirror, it makes me want to drive as far away from this place as humanly possible, it makes me want to be anywhere but staring at my dead childhood.

I can feel the pain in the side of my neck and I know it's only moments before I break down. Thankfully Quinn turns the car off and the music goes with it. If I had to listen to another verse of _Silent Night, _I think I might lose it faster than I ever intended to.

It's not until the cold wind is whipping in my face that I realize she got out of the car at all, she takes my hand wordlessly and pulls me out of the car. I follow behind her, our bags and luggage forgotten in the trunk of the car as we silently walk up the shoveled pathway. My head is downcast to avoid the wind as Quinn gently guides me up the steps. I hear the doorbell chime throughout the house after Quinn presses the button, it's oddly depressing that we're ringing the doorbell to gain entrance into my old home. You'd think I'd feel comfortable enough to just burst the door open as if I'd never left, I don't feel comfortable in doing that and I think Quinn realized it when I didn't make a move to turn the door knob.

"Just a minute," I hear my father's voice, faint and distant, most likely in the kitchen baking his assortment of cookies for the neighbors.

I glance at Quinn and she gives me a reassuring smile, I'm weary about this entire situation.

The door opens a few seconds later and as predicted, my father is dressed in hisfavorite apron, the one I made for him in middle school. I hear him gasp and that's when I look up to see his shocked face, hand covering over his mouth, the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

I'm pulled flush against him a second later, his arms come around me as a security blanket and all of my hesitation and nervousness surrounding this day flies out of my mind. I can't remember feeling this safe and happy in someone's arms before.

"You're here," he says into my hair, I can hear him crying.

I pull him closer, not even caring that some of the flour from his apron is getting on my black pea coat.

"I should have called to let you know I was coming," I tell him, somewhat apologizing for the intrusion, "We can get a hotel—"

"Don't you even think about finishing that sentence, Rachel Elizabeth," he warns playfully and I find myself laughing into his shoulder.

We pull away and he studies me, he's smiling wider than I've seen him smile in the last 3 years, I wipe some of the wetness from my cheeks before it freezes in the bitter coldness.

"I've missed you," I tell him.

He pulls me back into him and runs his hand up and down my back, "I've missed you too, Sweetheart. I'm so happy you're here," and I know he means it.

"Who's this?" he asks, gesturing towards Quinn who was momentarily forgotten to my left.

She sticks her hand out, "Quinn Fabray."

My father knows exactly who she is, his briefly raised eyebrow is indication of that, it's somewhat of a mix between confusion and pride. He forgoes the handshake and pulls her into a hug as well, he was always the hugger of the family. She shrieks involuntarily as he wraps his arms around her and I can't help but chuckle at the sight and how caught off guard she just was.

"Come in, come in. It's fierce out there," he gestures wildly, opening the door further.

We slide into the foyer and while the outside of the house doesn't look exactly the same, the inside does.

"You are staying for Christmas, yes? I don't see any bags."

He looks sad, as if he's already gotten his hopes up.

"They're in the car," I answer quickly and he smiles once again.

I can hear the faint sound of Christmas music coming from the radio in the kitchen.

"Can I get you girls something? Something to eat, drink? Hot Chocolate?"

I don't have to look at Quinn to see her face light up at the sound of Hot Chocolate.

"Hot Chocolates would be nice," I tell my father.

He beams at us both, "Wonderful, sit and relax and I'll be right back," he begins walking backwards into the kitchen, I know he's afraid I'll be gone by the time he gets back, he probably still thinks that this is a dream.

I show Quinn to the couch as we take our jackets off and throw them over the banister of the staircase.

"He's ecstatic to see you," she says, "How are you feeling?"

I sigh and lean back into the couch, "I've missed him," I reply.

She knows there's a lot I'm not saying but leaves it be for now.

"You ever think I'd be in your house?"

"Never in a million years," I tell her, and literally never in a million years would I believe I'd be in my childhood home with Quinn Fabray.

She gives me a playful nudge at my tone, "I always knew we'd meet up again."

"Sure you did."

I can hear my father humming in the kitchen along to the song that's playing. I sit silently as Quinn gets up and walks around the living room, looking at a few pictures that are scattered around on tables and shelves, taking in the decorations and having a few laughs at some of the ornaments that I've made over the years. She got a particular kick out of one of the popsicle ones, I thought it was rather crafty.

"Here we are," my father announces, carrying a Christmas themed tray into the room.

He sets it down and I see he's given us a preview of his Chocolate Chip cookies, I should have known he wouldn't just settle for hot chocolate. It's always been his nature.

Quinn practically orgasms as she tastes how chocolate-y his concoction is and I burn my tongue when I start to laugh into my mug. It's scolding hot and I've learned my lesson.

"So, what brings you here? Interview? Event in Cleveland? Tell me you're getting inducted into the Rock and Roll hall of fame," he's about to faint from excitement.

I laugh and set down the mug, "Not getting inducted…yet." I add in confidence and it amuses him, "There's nothing, just came to spend Christmas with you," I tell him, this might have been better news to him than a hall of fame nod.

"And yourself?" he turns to Quinn, "Come back to your old stomping grounds?"

I groan and rest my hand on my forehead; he was always trying to be hip in his lingo.

Quinn laughs, "Something like that," she answers politely.

"Quinn's here to see Beth," I tell him bluntly because it's easier if we just get this out of the way now.

"Oh my," he brings his hand to cover his mouth again and it seriously looks like he's about to cry once more, "How wonderful, she'll be thrilled. She's a pistol, that one."

"You've met her?" she asks him before turning to look at me with an eye brow raised.

I knew this but I neglected to tell her.

I give my father a look and just like that we're back to silently communicating like we've always been able to do.

"Occasionally," he downplays.

I know that they see each other at least once or twice a month, he's the closest thing that Beth has to a Grandparent, as both of Shelby's parents died long before Beth came into the picture. For the sake of not completely screwing up the family tree, she only refers to him as her Uncle.

"Oh, that's nice," Quinn tries her best to remain unaffected.

"So yes, we're going to go and see her while we're here. That's the only thing on our agenda besides spending some time with you," I tell him sweetly, "What are your plans?" I ask, not entirely sure if I'm ready to hear the answer.

"Today I'll be baking all day, you're welcomed to join me, if you can still keep up that is," he winks, "And you know I never miss my Midnight mass."

I smile before a frown takes its place, "And tomorrow?" I ask.

He shrugs, "Whatever."

That's code for nothing planned. It makes me feel more guilty than I ever thought possible.

"You'll come with us to Shelby's for dinner and dessert," I tell him.

He begins to open his mouth, probably to offer some sort of excuse as to not be a hassle.

"Not another word, Michael James," I reprimand him playfully.

He smiles, and shakes my knee with his hand, "You two warm up, I'll get the luggage out of the car," he announces as he gets up.

I'm about to protest but I realize how cold it is out there and it's probably such a treat for him to do something other than his normal routine so I don't break his spirit.

"Tomorrow's Christmas," Quinn states.

"Yes, Quinn. It is."

"Tomorrow I meet my daughter," she's all kinds of dazed out right now.

"If I can be sitting in this living room right now then surely you can get through tomorrow," I tell her.

I was going for inspirational but it came out a little irritated.

"You know what I mean," I shake my head, "Look let's just take everything in stride and not think about things that await us, okay?" I tell her as I start to think about what it's going to be like tomorrow morning without both my father's present.

She turns to look at me, she almost looks proud, "You're right. Let's focus on baking the hell out of those cookies," she says.

I smirk, "I like how you think, Fabray."

* * *

"I can't go in there," Quinn shakes her head.

"Will you stop being such a baby? It's a church for Christ's sake, it's not hell. This is like your Graceland."

She stops pacing and glares at me.

"Quinn, it's fucking freezing, and I'd leave your ass out here if it wasn't almost Christmas, and I can't very well do that anyway because the baby Jesus over there in the Nativity scene will surely judge me, and I can't have that on my good conscience."

"Good conscience?" she rolls her eyes.

"Watch it," I bark.

She walks towards me and I hold my hands out so she doesn't have to make much of an effort to find them.

"You don't understand, this is my old church, I haven't been in there since High School."

"Neither have I."

"You didn't get pregnant when you were 16."

"That was ten years ago, can you stop milking that?"

She narrows her eyes at me, "I can't go in there, especially now that I'm gay. It's like I'm a walking target for people to stone."

"Do people really stone others to death still?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"That's not the point," she lowers her voice, "What if I run into my parents?" she's scared out of her mind.

"Would they be above stoning you?" I ask, once again I'm genuinely curious but it seems to lighten up Quinn's mood, so I guess it did some good.

She chuckles, "I'm serious here," she's trying to be serious but I can see the hint of a smile still.

"Fine, you won't get to hear me sing," I tell her before turning on my heel and walking into the church.

I feel her tug at my arm, "You're singing?"

I shrug, "I called earlier, I thought it might be a nice present for my father."

She looks like a proud mother and it's frightening me.

I take this to be my opportunity.

"If I can get up there in front of everyone and sing to my father on Christmas Eve, surely you can stand an hour in the church."

Her shoulders drop, she's utterly ashamed of herself and for once it wasn't my intention, "You're right. God, you're absolutely right. What am I afraid of? I mean, your father feels comfortable enough to come to this church, I have nothing to be worried about," she's trying to convince herself that she can do this but I know she's still weary.

"C'mon," I pull her towards the doors, "I hate walking in after everyone is already seated."

We walk through the high wooden doors and I can already tell that we're going to be creating quite a scene as we make our way to where my father is waiting for us. Quinn's posture straightens, her hand goes directly to the cross necklace she's been wearing since high school and just like that, she transforms into an entirely different person. The Cathedral walls are high and it's decorated beautifully, it always gives me chills.

I feel Quinn's hand on my lower back as we greet the ushers and make our way to the vat of holy water that's at the back of the Church. I want to tell her that I know what I'm doing but I allow her to stay occupied, I think she realizes that this isn't my first rodeo but she's grateful that I'm letting her guide me none the less.

We walk down the main aisle until I see the back of my father's head, our heels echoing through the room of quiet chatter and shuffling. My father needs to be congratulated later on snagging a prime aisle seat. Quinn sits on the end as I nestle between her and my Father.

"I don't get you," she suddenly says, quietly.

I turn to look at her, conveying my confusion all in one look.

"If I recall, you wore the Star of David just as religiously as I wore my Cross."

"My Dad is—was, he was Jewish. Daddy is Catholic, we celebrate both."

She nods, it's a foreign concept to her, I can tell.

"Quinn, I've seen you here at Church when we were in High School," she turns sharply to look at me, thrown off by what I'm telling her.

I nod and keep going, "Always in the 3rd pew on the left," I recall, looking there now as if I was in High School again.

"I had no idea," she whispers as the organ begins to play.

"Why would you?"

She turns forward and everyone begins to stand and so begins the anxious waiting game that I have to endure. I try to pay attention, I really do. I recite the prayers when it's called for, I follow the cues almost on auto-pilot, my body is there but my mind is somewhere else entirely. Singing is something that's been in my blood, it's who I am. Suddenly getting up in front of the entire congregation has me more nervous than I ever remember being. I can't tell if it's because of the girl to my left or if it's because I don't want to screw this up.

I hear the scripture being read and I know that it's time for me to make my way up to the front, I think about backing out, not going through with this. There's a split second where I believe that I can escape out the side door and they'd be none the wiser. I know I can't do that.

"We have a special treat tonight," the Priest says, he's new, I've never seen him before.

I wait just off to the side, hidden from view but still able to see my audience, just like at one of my shows. It's eerily similar.

I don't know what made me call earlier and arrange this; a feeling came over me while I was in the kitchen, seeing Quinn and my father double over in laughter as I called them both children. The flour was not easy to get out of my hair.

My heart has never raced this fast, I can hear my heart beat bouncing off of the stained glass windows, I feel inadequate in front of all these people. Half of them know me from around town, a quarter of them probably recognize me from magazines, and the rest of them probably resent me for even attempting to bring my sin into their beloved church. I take my stand next to the choir, we haven't practiced, we haven't had a sound check, I don't even know if they're going to be able to match my voice. It will be raw and full of emotion.

I scan the faceless people hoping to find the ones I'm looking for, hoping they stand out in the crowd so that I can let them know that this is for them. Instead I see two faces that make my heart stop beating entirely.

Almost as if it was out of a movie, I finally know exactly where Quinn and my father are seated, and I know exactly where Quinn's line of vision is directed towards. There's no way she couldn't see the reaction on my face when I spotted her parents, and as I look up to see her staring at the back of her father's head, I see her begin to make her exit. Without waiting for any further introduction I open my mouth and I sing. It's the only thing I can do and luckily it's the only thing I know how to do. It doesn't matter that the instrument players weren't ready for me, or that I'm singing completely a cappella. All that matters is that Quinn stays where she is, that she isn't intimidated by the mere presence of her father, that she isn't afraid to be herself. I know that if she can get through this Mass, she can do anything.

My eyes lock on her as the choir begins humming light background for my rendition of _Silent Night_, once I'm sure that she isn't going anywhere, I turn my attention to my father, who's blubbering like a baby by now. I suddenly remember why I was so scared of doing this in the first place, this song was always my Dad's favorite, and the thought brings a flood of tears to my eyes as I make it everything I wish he could hear. I'm finally acknowledging it. I can't look at my father's big brown eyes anymore, it's too much. It's hard enough to get through this song as it is. I find Quinn, a safe haven, every ounce of anxiety leaves my body and I feel weightless. It's surreal and it's possible the lightheadedness is from the lack of oxygen I have from belting out the words to the Christmas classic but I have a feeling it's from something else entirely. She's crying, and it's comforting.

I sing the last line, making sure I give it my all, and it's not just because deep down I know my Dad is listening.

The thought of Quinn being gone by the time I get back to my seat has me more scared than I'd like to admit; it makes me forgo the original plan of exiting through the side door and has me just walking down the center aisle to the pew. Quinn stands as I approach, she's allowing me to slide in next to my father but I don't let go of her arm until I'm sure she's sitting next to me. I lean into him as he puts his arm around me, giving me a kiss on the top of my head as he whispers how proud he is. I never let go of Quinn's arm as I slide my hand down her wrist until our fingers intertwine gently, which is how we sit the remainder of the service.


	9. Chapter 9

The car ride was silent; the only sound filling the interior was the soft holiday music coming from the speakers as we made our way towards our destination. I was driving, something I hadn't done in a while. It took me at least five minutes to get used to the feeling and just like riding a bicycle, it came back to me once the car was in motion. I was a natural. Quinn was to my right, my father convincing her that she could sit in the passenger seat as he already made his way into the leather interior of the back seat, the presents stacked up on the seat next to him. He was fidgeting in anticipation, as if he was the one that would be receiving presents once we arrived at our Christmas day location.

Quinn on the other hand was dazed out and terrified as we made our way closer and closer to the home of her daughter. She'd been that way since waking up earlier this morning, a virtual statue with use of her limbs. I was momentarily afraid that I'd have to dress her when she made no move to do it herself. I spent the majority of the morning wrapping last minute presents that Quinn and I bought before we departed for Ohio, knowing we couldn't very well show up empty handed on Christmas. What else was I supposed to spend my salary on? The half sister of Rachel Berry wasn't going to have to endure that title and have nothing to show for it.

I circled the neighborhood a few times, my father knew exactly what I was doing but luckily he didn't open his mouth, maybe understanding _why_ I was doing it for Quinn. She did the same thing for me the day before. We pulled up to the house that looked much more colorful and decorative than the last time I was here and it was exactly what I remembered my house looking like when I was ten years old. The snowman in the front yard was fabulously dressed and the snow angels were crisp and fresh.

Quinn was staring through the side of her window, her breath fogging the glass every time she would release some air; my father recognized the situation and quietly excused himself, taking the presents as he went. I searched my brain for something to say to her, something to encourage her. I could tell she was in the same catatonic state that I was in the previous day and I realized then what I needed to do.

Quinn didn't even realize that I'd gotten out of the car until she was suddenly met with the coldness of the outside world, I didn't waste my time and I wordlessly pulled her up and out of the passenger side door, leading her up the curvy pathway lined with tiny lit up Christmas trees. She was silent next to me as I walked her into the warm house; the aromas hit us like a brick wall and made everything about the situation real for the both of us. Greetings were exchanged, hugs were had, and awkward laughter was shared. Beth was nowhere to be found but after meeting Shelby's thankful gaze and following her head gesture towards the basement door, I realized where Beth was.

Quinn put up no fight and I partly believe it was because she really wasn't quite with us one hundred percent yet, the shock that it was actually happening would catch up to her later. As predicted, Beth was gathered around a mountain of presents, most of which were bright pink.

"Rachel!" she squealed when I announced our presence.

Her hug crushed me, mostly because I wasn't ready for it. She's strong for a ten year old.

Her eyes went towards Quinn and her confused expression quickly smoothed out once she put the pieces together.

"You're Quinn?" she asked, almost as if she was sizing her up, sans the disgust.

I heard Quinn gasp and I knew it was because she saw how much of a resemblance there was between the two of them.

She nodded up and down, still unable to voice what was on her mind. I felt bad for smiling so wide, especially when they hadn't even formally introduced themselves to each other. I couldn't help it; there was something so incredibly heartwarming about the entire thing.

"It's nice to meet you Beth," she finally replied softly, most of her voice getting lost in the thickness of her throat.

"You're so pretty! Am I going to look like you when I get older?"

I couldn't help the laugh that passed my lips, between Beth's eager hazel eyes and Quinn's obvious embarrassment.

"If you're lucky, kiddo," I teased, pinching her cheek like any older relative would do.

Beth wasted no time in tugging on Quinn's hand, pulling her towards the re-vamped easy bake oven that appeared to be way more expensive and useful than the oven at my apartment. I'd consider cooking if I had a hot pink oven that provided me with carb stuffed desserts. Until I get my hands on one, I'll settle for the takeout Lauren arranges for me.

Quinn kept her emotions intact, even when I had to excuse myself when she began telling Beth about Noah, her father.

I caught up with my own mother while the two girls played catch up in the basement. It felt whole.

"Mommy, can I open my presents now?" Beth asked, kicking her legs furiously under the table the second her dinner was finished, anxious as any ten year old with the sight of wrapped gifts in their radius would be.

"Well that depends, Sweetheart. Is the basement a mess?" Shelby asked, folding her arms and raising her eyebrow, knowing as any mother of a ten year old on Christmas afternoon would be.

Beth contemplated her options. Lie and get presents or tell the truth and have to put in the manual labor before the presents. I could practically see her wheels turning. I watched on with amused eyes, Quinn interested as well to see what path the child would ultimately choose. We both knew very well that the basement was unrecognizable.

Her growing smirk was giving Noah Puckerman's a serious run for its money, "It's clean," she lied.

I could hear Quinn's intake of breath when she saw just how alike her estranged daughter and ex-boyfriend were in actuality.

"Elizabeth Faith, are you lying?"

"Mommy," she replied pointedly, huffing to show how serious she was about to become, "It will just be messy again when I get my new presents."

Manipulative and brilliant. She didn't even need the puppy dog eyes before Shelby melted at the sheer logic.

My father hid his amused laugh behind his glass of wine, and I had to resort to biting my lip in order to not let the child see that she was indeed victorious in her efforts. She already knew it. Her beaming smile only got wider as Shelby sighed. Wordlessly—and a little smugly—Beth hopped off of the chair and waltzed towards the waiting stack of presents. I all but expected her to throw in a fist pump for good measure.

Quinn excused herself when Beth called her to join her in the living room in order to open the gifts. My father and I helped Shelby with the dishes to give the other two some more alone time, taking our time in cleaning up and getting dessert ready. The two disappeared to the basement by the time we were done and the three of us gathered around the table with some coffee and pie, and around my 2nd slice of pie is when I started to zone out.

This night could have gone a number of different ways, and as strong as I was for Quinn in the beginning, I still had a few reservations. I can't imagine what is going through her mind but she seems to be taking the advice I gave her earlier as we got ready, pretend you're babysitting. Quinn's smile—as corny and cliché as it sounds—made this entire trip worth it. That, and the smile on my father's face. I'd of never made it back here if it wasn't for Quinn, and I realize now that if it wasn't for me, Quinn wouldn't be reconnecting with the daughter she gave away when she was younger. We both need each other far more than we're giving each other credit for.

"Rach, honey?" my father's hand is waving in front of my face, the sure sign that I've been completely ignoring the occupants of the dining room table for quite some time now.

"Yes?"

He laughs, "Shelby asked you a question."

"Oh, my apologies," I turn towards her, "You were saying?"

She also has somewhat of a smile, "I asked if you'd be okay with having Beth come out by you for a long weekend, maybe during her spring vacation?" I give her a blank stare and she elaborates, "I didn't want to say anything until we saw how today went, but I'm sure there's no way to avoid it now," she offers an easy smile.

"Of course," I'm quick to reply, "I think it's a wonderful idea," I tell her, hoping my hesitancy doesn't show through.

It would be all too easy for her to get her heart broken if she were to ever see what I actually deal with in New York.

"And of course, if Quinn would like to continue contact," Shelby adds.

I smile, hearing both girls coming up the steps, Beth first and following her is a genuinely happy Quinn. I smile upon seeing her, "I don't think that will be a problem."

"Rachel!" Beth calls excitedly and very out of breath.

"Beth!" I mimic her.

"Quinn says that she can beat you in a singing contest."

"She did?"

She nods enthusiastically, Quinn's eyebrow raises.

"I did _not_ say that."

Beth's laughter gives away the real answer but I decide to play along.

"I believe you Beth, and I simply cannot allow that to happen. I'm assuming you've set up the video game I got you?"

She nods again, her eyes still wide.

"Then I shall have to beat her and if I don't, you can have one of my Grammy awards," I smile, "And don't think I'm going to go easy on _you_ either," I tickle her before she squirms off of my lap and races down the steps, her laughter piercing our ears.

I wink at Quinn, suddenly falling in love with the gesture. She smiles her pretty smile.

"Excuse me, I have a Grammy to defend," I tell the table, "And a ten year old to teach."

* * *

"You know, you could have let her win," Quinn tells me from the passenger seat.

My father chuckles in the backseat, he knows that was not an option.

"I most certainly could not, Quinn!" I tell her, offended that she'd even _think_ I was capable of that.

"I doubt she'd go to the press and tell them how you lost a playful singing video game competition."

"Playful?" I scoff, "That girl wanted my blood, I had to step it up just to beat her."

"She's 10," she replies dryly.

Oh, I know. She's ten going on twenty-five.

"And one hell of a manipulator! She's your evil and much smaller twin, you mustn't let your guard down around her Quinn, she smells weakness. She's like Sylvester."

Images of her in a bright pink track suit haunt my mind. Not Sylvester. Beth.

"One, do _not_ compare the child I had in my stomach for 9 months to that horrible woman. And two, she is not evil, Rachel! She is an innocent little girl!"

I bet she thought of herself as an innocent little girl growing up as well. Clearly she's delusional on all fronts.

"You're biased and your judgment is obviously clouded.

"You're out of your mind," she exhales.

"The only reason you're even defending her is because you gave birth to her, and because I saw her give you those big wet eyes, trust me she's fine," I attempt to convince her.

Damn Beth and her sneaky ways of persuasion.

"She looked like she was about to cry!" she squeaks.

It's a little endearing that she's so adamant on sticking up for the child. I'm already seeing her in a way different light after watching her interact so naturally with Beth. She's going to make a great mother one day.

"It's called acting, Fabray. I taught her what she knows. Trust me, she was just trying to get the sympathy vote. And clearly it worked," I sigh, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel.

Seriously, damn that child.

"And you encouraged this type of behavior when she was growing up?" she turns to ask my father playfully.

He holds his hands up in surrender, "Hey, if I didn't, I don't think she'd have 3 Grammys."

"And two Tonys," I add cheerfully.

"Right, and it's not like she let her father or I _ever_ win, so at least we know she's against nepotism."

"That's right, Daddy," I wink at him in the rearview mirror.

Quinn has given up on the argument.

"If anything I helped her, she'll practice and practice until she does beat me, and if she ever does succeed then she'll be one hell of a singer. She'll be better for it. If she knows what it feels like to lose at a young age; she'll prepare herself to never lose when she's older."

Quinn looks around the car exaggeratedly, "Is it ten years ago?"

People need to stop doing that to me.

"Very funny," I sneer, "I'm merely stating that the child could gain from this very valuable learning experience."

"Seriously. Where is twenty-seven year old Rachel?"

"You're the one that forced me to reconnect with my younger self, well here you go," I tell her.

"You surely got the conceitedness back," she's teasing, I'm assuming.

"And I can only hope that it passes on to Beth. She's my little prodigy. It kills you doesn't it, Fabray?" I grin widely when she glares at me.

"Oh look, we're home," my father announces, happy to get out of the car and away from the bickering that's been going on since we pulled away from Shelby's nearly 20 minutes ago.

It was playful bickering. I know Quinn's not _actually _mad at me, just like I'm not _actually_ mad that she took Beth's side over mine.

I follow Quinn into the house and she practically runs up the steps before I can give her another flat tire, which is my new thing.

"What do you want to do?" I ask, my father is nowhere in sight.

She looks around, her eyes landing on the TV; she turns towards me and shrugs.

"I'll make the popcorn," I tell her.

"I'll find something to watch," she decides.

"Something—"

"Nothing musical."

"Then—"

"Christmas-y, yeah I got it."

"You think you're clever."

"I know I am," I can hear her smiling, "Everything's already started, where are—"

"2nd shelf under the TV."

It's silent for about a minute and I throw the bag of popcorn in the microwave after shrugging off my coat and scarf.

"Christmas—"

"Yeah," I answer.

"You don't even know what movie I was going to say."

"Christmas Vacation," I tell her.

"How did—"

"It's the only Christmas movie we own."

"Then why—"

"For funsies."

"Funsies?" she questions to herself.

"It's a word," I holler.

Quinn is silent and I consider that it's because she's mad that I essentially tricked her into watching the movie I wanted to watch and then I realize why she's silent.

"It's the silver DVD player," I call in from the kitchen.

"Why do you have—"

"One is blu-ray."

The popcorn finally begins to pop, I know I'm not supposed to stare into a microwave but they never did produce valid test results for that entire myth. Or did they?

I hear Quinn shuffle around some more before I hear the distinct sound of the movie starting up.

"Are you going to get more—" I yell over the loud popping, refusing to take my eyes off the magic before me.

"Yeah, do you have anything—"

"In my closet."

I hear her feet padding up the stairwell and towards my room. The microwave beeps ceremoniously and instead of waiting until the bag cools down, I choose to scald my finger tips as I do a little jig to get the buttered delight into a bowl. I grab two bottles of water and set the snack on the coffee table before running up the stairs, taking two at a time. Quinn's walking out of my closet, a navy _NYU _sweatshirt covering her face with a pair of grey _soffee_ shorts. She finally gets the cut sweatshirt over her head and laughs when she realizes that I've entered the room.

I raise my eyebrow, "NYU looks good on you."

She gives me a playful glare as she puts her hair up in a loose pony tail, "It's no _Columbia_ but I suppose it will do," she jokes.

"I thought you went to Ohio State."

Okay, so yes. I listened when she told me about her life.

"I did my graduate work at Columbia."

Both my fathers went to Columbia and I _know_ that there are at least four oversized sweatshirts in my closet that prove such a fact.

"Well," I rest my hands on my hips, "I'm sorry to hear that."

She chose NYU on purpose.

"Very funny," she replies before purposely nudging me on her way out of the room, "Whoops, sorry about that," she whispers seductively.

"Your subtlety is astounding," I mutter before finding something more comfortable to change into. Having to settle for the light blue _Columbia University _sweatshirt, and only because my favorite _NYU_ sweatshirt has already been claimed.

"I heard that," she bellows from the hallway.

She smirks at me when she sees what I'm wearing when I come down the stairs.

"That's weird," she comments, "I didn't see that in there," I can see right through her little charade and coy smile.

Oh, she _so_ just got busted.

I settle on the couch next to her, Quinn finds the remote and hits play before grabbing the popcorn bowl to set in between us. God, popcorn is an amazing snack food. I don't get it enough.

Quinn also hands me the bottle of water that I carelessly toss somewhere on the couch. It doesn't matter where I throw it because it will just get lost anyway; the couch is far too big to keep track of anything.

Quinn leans back into the couch and takes a few pieces of popcorn as I'm shoveling it into my mouth by the handful. It's just so good. She laughs while I struggle to find something to wipe the butter off with before she reaches forward again and grabs the paper towel I brought in earlier. I knew it was there, I was just waiting for Quinn to do it for me.

"You good?"

I nod, unable to speak.

She settles back again, shuffling around and not being able to get comfortable.

She gets back up.

"Jesus, can't you sit still?"

"Easy Orville, I'm just going to turn off the lights," she laughs as she stands above me, "And maybe make another bag of popcorn before you eat it all."

_Orville?_ Is she making an insinuation of some sort? I'm assuming it's rude. Whatever, I'm sure it's accurate right now.

"Oh, good idea."

The lights turn off and the room is engulfed only in a glow of the opening credits, I blindly search for the water bottle, suddenly needing it to quench my unexpected thirst. Quinn sits down again, this time _much_ closer than we were originally. Where is that damn bottle of water? I drop the bowl on her lap.

She laughs, "I was just kidding."

Found it.

I turn my face away from her stubbornly, "No. It's fine," I answer shortly.

"Suit yourself," she answers easily.

That's not what I was expecting.

"No, wait," I start.

She puts the bowl back in between us and laughs again.

The movie has _finally_ started and I get lost in it. I haven't seen it in years.

I'm much more conscious of the time in between reaching for the popcorn too. But, it's really hard to not pace myself, _especially _when I feel her fingers graze mine every time I blindly reach in. It's like a grab bag.

I wonder if she's doing it on purpose. Only one way to find out.

"Let me know when you want to stop using the popcorn bowl as an excuse to touch my hand," I tell her lowly once there's a break between scenes.

She turns to look at me, an amused expression on her face. I can't tell if I've called her out or not. She's sitting Indian style on the couch as I have my legs almost tucked beneath me. She quirks an eyebrow and grips the bowl before leaning forward to put it on the coffee table. She uncrosses her legs and stretches them so that she's using the table as a makeshift ottoman. She leans further back into the couch and I feel her arm come around my shoulders, pulling me into her.

I'm stunned into silence.

That is, until I feel her fingers using the sweatshirt I'm wearing as a napkin.

I pull back quickly and she laughs heartily.

"You're dead."

She nods, silencing me, "After the movie," she replies before I feel her pull me back into her.

My head has _no_ choice but to rest against her shoulder, even though it absolutely _kills _me to use her as a pillow.

I guess she told me.

* * *

"You're _such_ a light-weight," Quinn laughs as she lightly bangs her fist on the bar top, rattling our drinks just a bit.

"Me?" my voice is practically shrieking, "You're the one that can't stop laughing, get a hold of yourself, Fabray."

"Oh please," she's slurring, or maybe my mind is making her sound slurred, "You know there's tequila in Margaritas, right?"

"Duh, Quinn."

She laughs again; she's having the time of her life.

The bartender gives us a concerned look; I give him a small and apologetic smile, excusing the hot mess next to me.

"Can you pull yourself together for Christ's sake, you're embarrassing me."

She laughs harder, "I never thought I'd hear you say that, ten years ago this conversation would be reversed," she smiles lazily at my narrowed eyes and soon enough I'm grinning with her, it was contagious.

"C'mon Rach, you don't find this situation at least a little bit funny?" she takes another sip of her frozen drink.

"I mean, we _are_ drinking Margaritas at a very Italian restaurant, and you're whacked out of your God damn mind, so yes, I suppose it is comical."

She smiles victoriously, "Now drink," she pushes the glass closer towards my lips, spilling a bit over the rim.

I oblige and drink until I feel the oncoming effects of a brain freeze.

"I don't get it, why weren't you _this_ drunk when we went out a few weeks ago?"

She taps her finger to her chin, forget what I said before about it not being endearing, it's _entirely _endearing.

"Hmmm."

She's still thinking.

"I had to make sure you got home okay," she finally answers.

"I didn't go home," I remind her.

"Okay, or back to _my place._"

She's air-quoting. Lord help us, she's air-quoting.

"So it was a ploy?"

She starts tapping her finger to her chin again.

"Okay, enough," I grab her hand away from her face; I'll seriously lose it if I have to watch her do it any longer.

She giggles, "You were my 'sponsibility that night and I wanted to make sure you had fun," she punctuates her reasoning by tapping my nose.

I see she's completely avoided my question and I'm deciding to let it slide.

"How very chivalrous of you, Miss Fabray."

She bows her head. Why do I get the feeling that she would have curtseyed had we been standing up?

"Drink!" she demands again.

My father would absolutely have to pick us up at last call. Do Italian restaurants even _have_ a last call? We were only supposed to come get some dinner on our last night in town, and what better place than the only restaurant in town? _Breadstix_. The bar just _happened_ to catch our eye, considering the last time either of us were here, we weren't old enough to indulge. And maybe that one Margarita we promised ourselves we'd have before leaving just _happened_ to turn into four, and if it _happens_ to turn into four more than who are we to object? And if it _happens_ to only be seven in the evening then so be it. You win some and you lose some.

"Excuse me, can we get some more breadsticks," she calls out to no one in particular, "Garcon!" Quinn begins to snap her fingers, the liquid nearly spits out of my mouth as I reach over and cup my hand over her lips.

The bartender turns his attention back to us with a raised eyebrow; I bat my eyelashes and give him a crooked smile, "Can we get some more breadsticks please?"

The man nods and fills our basket within seconds; he must have a vat of them under the bar.

He tends to another customer and that's when I turn to see my hand still covering Quinn's mouth. Her eyes are lighting up and I can feel her lips smiling beneath my palm, truly childish.

"Are you crazy?" I take in her goofiness, "You know what? Don't answer that."

She reaches for one of the fresh—questionably fresh—breadsticks and munches happily on it.

I finish off the rest of the margarita before flagging down our garcon, as Quinn once again calls him, and it's halfway through my next drink that I get literal chills down my spine, and it's not from the margarita.

"Rachel?"

No. It couldn't be.

Quinn's hollowing laughter is the only thing I can hear besides the ringing in my ears. Also, her hand slapping her knee.

"Finny!" I hear her squeal before I turn on the bar stool and find the baby-faced boy that I haven't seen in eight years.

"Um, Quinn?" he looks confused and it's like we're right back in high school.

His trademark expression eventually wears off as he awkwardly pats Quinn's back.

"Hello Finn, how are you?" I say as sweetly as I can manage, even when sitting on a bar stool, he's still awkwardly tall.

"What are you guys doing here?" he asks, still looking back and forth between us as if he's expecting us to wrestle.

Occasionally he looks around the restaurant, undoubtedly checking for hidden cameras, I consider letting him know this is real but it's more entertaining this way.

"Gettin' our drank on," Quinn answers, slurping the remnants of her drink before waving obnoxiously to get the bartenders attention.

"Are you guys drunk?" he asks.

Hmm. You think?

"Still slow on the uptake there, Finny boy," she pats his shoulder gently.

"Indeed," I kick Quinn's leg, not very subtly, and give her a warning glance, "We are a bit intoxicated."

"Ow!"

"But you're together, and getting along."

He still looks exactly the same; he's a 27 year old in a teenager's body. Except, he's still as smart as a 17 year old. Shame too.

"That's because we're friends," I tell him.

"Since when?" he doesn't look convinced.

"We've _always_ been best friends, Finnkles. Where have you been?" Quinn asks, suddenly seeming extremely sober.

She seems agitated and a lot like her former self. Maybe he brings that out in her. I wouldn't be surprised.

"You have?"

"Yeah, since high school."

She's devious when she's drunk. And I love it.

I nod for further convincing.

"Oh, yeah of course. How could I forget?" he laughs nervously and I know he still has _no_ idea what's going on.

He still believes he's on an episode of _The Twilight Zone_.

"So what brings you back to Ohio, Rachel? I haven't seen you in what? A few years…" he trails off when he realizes the last time I saw him.

"When your dumb ass dumped her, how'd that work out for ya, buddy?"

It's hard to tell if Quinn is being hateful or not, it's difficult to judge by her wide amused eyes and her lazy smirk, it's certainly not possible to get mad at her when she looks like that. I attempt anyway.

"Quinn!"

She shrugs un-phased and twirls back around in her chair when the bartender sets her new drink down, her eyes look bigger than her stomach and I resist the urge to smile adoringly at her antics, it's just the alcohol that has me wanting to do it anyway.

I clear my throat and turn towards Finn, "Excuse her."

He gives me the crooked smile that I'd drop everything for in high school and I find it has no affect on me whatsoever. And that seems to be the only reason I'm smiling back at him.

"So uh, how long are you in town for?" he asks.

"We fly out tomorrow morning," I answer.

"You guys flew here together?" once again, he's shocked. I guess it wasn't clear that we were a packaged deal for the weekend, like when picking teams in gym class.

"Best friends, doofus," Quinn singsongs between sips, her head nodding back and forth.

Of course she'd find it still socially acceptable to call someone a doofus and completely be able to pull it off.

"Right," he nods, "I watch you on all the award shows, that's gotta be pretty cool, huh?"

I smile at his familiar innocent features and mannerisms, "Yes, I guess all my hard work is starting to pay off."

He nods definitively this time, "I knew it would," he smirks softly.

Sure you did.

"Sure you did," Quinn throws over her shoulder.

This time I can't stop my laugh at her comment.

"She's really drunk," I whisper.

He shrugs it off easily, letting it roll off his back, "Like high school, huh?"

I give him a tightlipped smile, "Just like high school."

"I wasn't always drunk in high school," she turns in her chair; I have to grab her arm to steady her before she falls.

Her eyes are on fire as she glares up at him.

"Sweetheart, he meant the bitchy comments," I tell her softly, as if I'm explaining to a child, or Brittany, where babies come from.

She doesn't break her hard glare for a few seconds, my brain reeling with possible things I could say to diffuse the intense situation.

She finally cracks a smile and laughs, "Yeah, you're right," she answers easily before swiveling around to nurse her drink once again.

"So, I guess I should go. My girlfriend is in the car waiting."

He probably just wants to get out of here before he pisses Quinn off some more. It's bound to happen. I wonder if we should warn his girlfriend that every girl he was with during high school is now full on capitol G gay.

Nah.

"Well Finn, it was great seeing you," I put my hand out for him to shake and he falters slightly before grasping my hand. I think he wanted to go in for the full hug and I'm just not ready for that type of commitment.

"Um, you too…Bye Quinn."

Quinn doesn't turn back around, she simply throws a wave over her shoulder, "Later Finnessa" she mumbles into her drink.

Finn slowly walks his way out of the restaurant, undeniably more confused than he normally is.

I turn around and face the bar, my drink is absolutely less full than it was 5 minutes ago.

Quinn looks guilty.

"You think he regrets letting you go?" she asks.

I shrug, "Maybe. I don't think we would have lasted very long."

"He would have only held you back," Quinn finishes for me.

"Yeah," I mumble.

"Do you wish you were still with him?"

I'd have choked if there was liquid in my mouth, "God no, Finn and I had our time."

She nods thoughtfully, reaching to grab another breadstick.

"Can you believe that was the boy we spent our high school days pining after? He seems unworthy of the pedestal we had him on."

"I agree," I reply in a daze, talk about a blast from the past.

"Did you love him?" the vulnerability behind her voice makes it hard to believe she was just tossing around insults moments before.

"I think so."

"You think?"

"I was sort of jaded by the image of him, sometimes I think the only reason I wanted him was because you had him and sometimes I think that I only stayed with him was because of the security he provided me," I turn to look at her, "that doesn't seem like love, not after growing up and looking back at it."

"You know what I think?" she leans in closer, as if she's about to tell me a colossal secret.

Her face is trying very hard to be serious but it's as if she's never heard of such a concept. She's drunk and it's now clear to me how drunk she is. Her eyes are even laughing.

"Pray tell, what do you think?" I ask her, no longer able to fight off her contagious demeanor.

"I think you should drink," she wiggles her eyebrows a few times before once again pushing the glass towards my lips.

I shake my head but once again concede to her demands.

"And for the record, the only reason I wanted him back in the beginning was because I didn't want you to date him," she admits.

"We were pretty stupid, huh?"

"I know I was," she replies.

Her voice is sad and it makes me want to further inquire but another voice interrupts us.

"Quinnie?"

"Oh, fuck me," she slams her forehead on the bar, I wince.

"Oh dear, it is you!"

Ah, Mrs. Fabray, an oxymoron if I've ever seen one. Young dinosaur or perhaps a brand new antique. She had to have been pushing 60 by now but still looked 30.

"Judith, the car is running," my eyes go wide when I hear the voice.

Seeing him off in the distance was nothing compared to actually hearing his voice.

Quinn hears him as well; she's now continuously banging her head on the wooden bar, I think she's chanting _why_ over and over again.

Hopefully she's drunk enough to deal with her father. I know how emotional she was after merely spotting him in church. And they didn't even run into each other.

"What's this?" the man asks as he comes to a halt next to his wife, okay now _he_ looks like an _actual_ ancient dinosaur, "Quinn?" his voice booms through the air, luckily not gaining attention from the restaurant's other patrons.

"Rusty!" Quinn replies with fake excitement as she finally sits up and spins around to meet her parents, "Fancy seeing you here!"

I grab a breadstick, this is going to be _so_ good.

"You're drunk," he announces, disgusted by the mere thought.

"You're observant. And I'm sure you've already had your bottle of Scotch today," Quinn replies, no trace of malice in her voice.

"Excuse me?"

"I see it's also impairing your hearing now," she gives him a wide smile; I'm half expecting him to wind up and slap her. My eyes are wide as I finish off the breadstick, immediately reaching for another one. I feel like a wood chipper.

"Please, can you two try and be civil?"

Meh, it was a good attempt Judy.

"Why couldn't you have turned out like your sister?" the man ignores his wife, it was to be expected. He seems the type.

Quinn rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest, "Abby resents you," she almost sounds bored.

"Abigail would _never_ disgrace her family like you have."

Oh he's playing dirty now, throwing around words like _disgrace _and _family _and _Abigail_.

He's relentless.

"If she was smart she would, I'm sure she'd be a lot happier."

And so is his youngest born.

Team Quinn!

I blindly wave towards the bartender, not because I need another 'sticks refill but because I can't find the bowl they reside in. I refuse to take my eyes off what could potentially turn into a mash up rumble of blockbuster proportions, two completely opposite parties fusing together into one hateful and horrendous train wreck. A William Schuester original. I chuckle.

Ah, finally. I've found a breadstick. Joyful and triumphant.

"Who's this?" her father finally notices I exist, gesturing his head towards me, "Your girlfriend? A shame no doubt, an abomination, a pathetic excuse…" he practically spits the last word.

Excuse me? I am _nobody's_ girlfriend.

"Now wait just a minute, Roger."

"Russell."

"I don't care. You're rude and I don't like your tone. I think you should leave before I have you escorted out of this place."

His lips curl into a devious weird smile, like to the point where I would assume he was a sadistic serial killer if I didn't know him. Who am I kidding? He still could be.

"And why should I listen to you?"

Um, hello?

"I'm Rachel Berry."

"Well Rachel Berry, I've heard of you and I don't believe you own this place," he seems smug, as if he could out bitch Rachel Berry. Pshh.

"Ah, so you're aware of who I am?"

He doesn't respond.

Time to whip out the big guns.

"Then you should probably realize that I could purchase this restaurant in mere minutes and have you arrested simply because I don't like you or how you treat your daughter."

"She's not my daughter," he corrects with repulsion.

"Oh wonderful, then I don't have to hold back out of sheer respect for Quinn," I look towards her and she raises her eyebrow at me, gesturing with her hand to let me have at it.

With pleasure.

"First of all, I can smell you from here and I doubt it's the blood of Christ, so why don't you just take what's left of your dignity and exit this establishment before I have the cops follow you home. And judging by your narrow minded ways, you're probably one to drive home drunk rather than relinquish control of your car to your darling wife. And by the way Mrs. Fabray, your husband was absolutely hitting on the hostess. And another thing, Quinn's far better off without you in her life, and for the record, no, I'm not her girlfriend. But I bet it will irk you just the same to know that she's going home with me at the end of the night," I smirk as he steps forward, "I beg you to attempt something with me, I can't wait to read the headlines on Monday morning of the man arrested for assaulting an innocent and extremely famous singer."

His ears are steaming, or maybe it's my imagination. It doesn't make it any less fun though, Quinn is hysterically laughing next to me and it makes it all worth it. Even if I may have blacked out during my little rant.

"You heard the girl, I wouldn't mess with her," Quinn smirks, "As much as I've enjoyed this little family reunion from hell, I really have to get back to drinking and prowling the bar for suitable partners. Who are gay," she adds unnecessarily, "and drunk and hopefully also got pregnant in high school, the triple crown."

Quinn's smirk only gets wider at the look on her father's face as he begins to back away from the two of us.

"Come, Judith."

Is she a dog? I tilt my head, she kind of reminds me of a poodle.

She looks over her shoulder at her husband's retreating form and then back to us. She brings her arm up and I flinch as I wait for her hand to make contact with my face. I open my eyes to Quinn's laughter.

"High five," her mother whispers.

Um, what?

I slap the woman's hand.

"Quinn, that wasn't very nice of you to upset your father like that," she points, "Do you have any idea how long it will take for him to get his blood pressure back to normal?"

She rolls her eyes, "No, but I'm sure you'll tell me in your next email."

"Right well, perhaps a call next time you're in town?"

"Doubtful," Quinn answers simply.

"Don't be rude."

"Leave that man."

"When he dies, sweetheart," she smiles mischievously and I'm seriously frightened, "Lord knows he's a fool but I still love him."

Quinn shrugs, "Your problem," she tells her mother before reaching behind her back blindly to get her drink. I see I have to help her.

"I have to get going, it was great seeing you darling," she quickly hugs the younger blonde before gesturing towards me with her thumb, "I like her," she winks, "Merry Christmas!" she calls back to us.

Um, Merry Christmas? What the hell is going on?

Quinn shakes her head in laughter as her mother's delicate form glides towards the door; I don't miss the way she scowls at the hostess on the way out.

Quinn turns back towards the bar and sips on her drink as if nothing just happened.

"Mind telling me what the fuck that was all about?"

"Which part?" she asks for clarification, without so much as looking up from her drink.

"You and your mom email each other? I thought you didn't talk to them anymore."

At least, she gave me that impression when we talked about her parents in sessions.

"I prefer pen pals," she grins, "And yes, I still talk to my mother, she's not nearly as bad as my father."

"So she's like okay with you?"

This is all so baffling.

"I guess."

"And I'm the one in therapy?"

She shakes her head, obviously amused with my comment but not willing to dignify me with a serious response.

"Drink," she shoves the drink towards me, and for the umpteenth time, I listen to her.

* * *

If I thought Quinn was drunk before, I had another thing coming.

"Wouldn't it be funny if your name was Raquel?" she doesn't give me a chance to respond, "I'd call you Rocky."

She's huddled next to me, her arm looped with mine as we wait for my father to pick us up. Apparently Breadstix _does_ have a last call.

"If you start to sing the theme song I'm—"

Quinn doesn't even let me finish my sentence before her humming of _Eye of the Tiger_ gets increasingly louder, it's not the theme song but I don't have the heart to tell her that. She's having the time of her life.

Oh look, she's doing wind sprints in the parking lot. Splendid.

"You're going to make yourself throw up," I tell her, I feel like I'm about to throw up just watching her.

I'm too far gone to care that I'm swaying with the wind, as if I'm just a part of nature as the trees.

She jogs up to me, pretending to work out as she swings at an imaginary punching bag.

Okay, that swing got a little too close to my Barbara nose.

"Pull yourself together," I laugh with her as my arm wraps around her waist, pulling her into me.

She almost immediately stops at the contact but her laughter is still there.

She's blowing hot air out of her mouth to make smoke, attempting to _still_ show me that she's capable of blowing smoke rings. We've been outside for probably five long minutes and I've yet to see her produce such rings but I make sure to give her my full attention when she pulls on my arm to look. Utterly childish and adorable.

"Is your number one stalker Jacob Ben Israel? I bet he's in charge of all your fan clubs, I hope he doesn't try to shoot you like those really crazy stalkers. Maybe I should offer to therapuze him," I laugh under my breath at her non-word. I wonder what word she was trying to get across.

She's truly remarkable. Apparently drunk Quinn is six years old and easily amused. She's a completely different person under alcoholic hypnosis and I can't believe how much I enjoy not only taking care of her but hearing the things that are coming out of her mouth. She's has the attention span of a ten year old at Disney World high off rock candy and red bull. Slurring offenses at ex-boyfriends, swapping dislikes with fathers, sharing her most inner thoughts without batting an eyelash, or without a filter. It's so unlike her.

"Where is this all coming from?"

It's intriguing to me where these thoughts come from and I don't skip out on an opportunity to get into the mind of the normally guarded therapist.

"He's over there."

I smile at her lazily, she's just so cute.

Wait.

"What?"

She blows out another breath of air, I almost see the circular shape and she looks at me with wide eyes, hoping I saw it too. I give her a nod and her face lights up.

She points towards the general direction of the parking lot; my eyes find a mysterious darkened figure. She's got cat-like eyes because I can barely make the person out. Although it doesn't take a genius to realize it's him, what with his afro and the general creeps you feel when he's within a 100 foot radius.

"What's he doing here?" I ask, afraid to remove my eyes from him, in case he should be suddenly in front of me when I turn back to him.

She shrugs, not really caring that it makes no sense.

"Hi Jacob!" she screams.

I practically break my heel off when I lunge towards her, I'd have tackled her if I wasn't worried about ripping my new jeans. Though I bought them distressed and frayed and no one would notice another rip in them. I digress.

We have more pressing matters here that require my utmost attention.

Instead of being fearful and wide eyed by my sudden attack on her, she's completely smitten in making my life a living hell. I can feel her smiling wide against my palm.

I take a deep breath and brace myself, I know it's very horror movie cliché and that the odds of him standing right behind me is highly unlikely but it's one of my greatest fears. I sometimes still have to check the closets in my apartment, should he have learned of my whereabouts.

I scream when I turn around, because of course, he's there.

"Rachel Berry?" he's wide eyed, and looks like he just scored the _Queen Frostine _card in _Candy Land_.

I shake my head, the only reason I'm even aware of the names of the characters in the game is because Quinn spent twenty minutes dissecting game strategy and explaining to me in excruciating detail which one she'd most like to meet in real life. Queen Frostine it was. She even cracked a small smile during her heated discussion when I made the joke that she was a psychologist's dream patient when she was drunk.

"OW! Fuck, Quinn," I pull my hand away, shaking it, hoping to get the sting out of the bite I just endured, "Are you serious?"

She looks un-phased and I won't put it passed her to bite me again.

"Quinn Fabray," he breathes out, as if she's the rarest species on the planet. She kind of is.

Quinn's staring at him with glazed eyes as if he's an ancient artifact in a museum; she hasn't blinked in a few seconds. I put an end to it when she reaches her arm out to poke him. Seriously, what was in those margaritas?

"We've got to go, Jacob. It was nice seeing you again," I hurry and pull Quinn along, she's still facing him as I literally drag her away. Unbelievable.

"Where is my father?" I mutter to myself, "It doesn't take this long to get here, and we called him nearly twenty minutes ago."

Quinn was the one that called him when I was in the bathroom, in hindsight that may have been a bad idea.

She giggles.

No, I'm _sure_ it was a bad idea.

This isn't happening. We're both drunk, one of us a little more drunk than the other one—Quinn, and I'd have coughed her name if I was speaking out loud—and my number one stalkerazzi is within earshot.

I pull out the phone and call my father.

Trying to decipher what Daddy is saying over the coursing alcohol beating in my ears, and Quinn Fabray singing _Push it, _may have been one of the most difficult tasks I've ever had to accomplish.

"Ooooo Baby, Baby"

"Stop that," I hush out in a whisper, swatting away her hands.

"Push it?" she asks a little more delicately, she's also pouting. Wonderful.

"You told my dad we were at _Olive Garden_!"

In her defense, both places have bottomless breadsticks. And now I sound like Santana when she would defend Brittany all those years ago.

Her brows are furrowed as she undoubtedly replays the conversation back in her mind. It's taking too long for her to get to that _a-ha!_ moment and Jacob calls out to us.

"Do you guys need a ride home?" he sounds hopeful, I weigh our options.

Quinn's about to open her mouth, I ignore the bite mark on my hand and take my chances when I cup it over her lips again.

"No! We're fine," I yell before she can say anything.

He really needs to leave, now.

"Did you just lick me? Ya know what? I don't want to know."

"Are you sure?" he asks, I can hear him shuffling, he's starting to walk closer.

"Yes!" I scream over my shoulder, "Stop licking me," I growl.

"Rach?"

Oh for Christ's sake.

"C'mon," I pull Quinn towards me and start walking her swiftly in between cars and out of eye sight, hoping to use the parked cars as a maze and confuse our predator.

It's only 8:30, there was no last call. We absolutely got kicked out.

"Why are we crouching down?" she whispers behind me as I start to move slowly towards the end of the silver _Lexus_ that we're ducked down behind in order to get a good view of where Jacob is.

"Because, we're trying to get away from Jacob. It's going to take another ten minutes for my dad to get here and we need to hide."

I feel like I'm talking to Brittany.

I think.

"Remember that one time that we all played capture the flag against the boys over the summer before senior year started?"

She nods her head up and down furiously, I can tell she's about to go off on a tangent about that night. I cut her off.

"Okay well, I need you to go into stealth mode like we did back then, okay? We don't want him to find us."

She looks confused.

How would Santana explain this to Brittany?

"Pretend Jacob is lava and you have to protect me from him," she nods slowly, "And our rental car is home base."

She understands. Good.

She's up and pulling me along with her, throwing me behind cars and checking to make sure everything is secure before moving further. Navy seal Quinn is my new favorite Quinn. All I can see is the black war paint and bandana that she wore at the capture the flag excursion in high school and it's setting me on fire.

She counts to three silently on her fingers and we're up and moving again. The back door of what looks like our car is quickly opened and I'm thrown across the seat a second later, essentially eating leather. Quinn topples on me and it takes me a few seconds to get the wind back in my lungs and steady my heartbeat from the adrenaline rush she just took me on.

"Shhh," she whispers, pointing towards the back window, as if he was right outside.

I doubt he is but I humor her.

I nod wordlessly and maneuver myself so that I'm a little more comfortable. The two of us are resting our heads on opposite doors, out of view from the windows, and staring at each other. That is, before we break out into a laughing fit.

"My hero," I sigh, blissfully.

"Always," she's got a bit of cockiness to her tone; it's very Puckerman of her.

"We've had quite the night, haven't we? We should come back to Lima more often, I don't think we've insulted nearly as many people as we could have."

She chuckles, "We'll be back," she tells me, suddenly as sure as she is that the world is round, "You think Karofsky still lives around here?" she teasingly bites her tongue.

"Don't even," I warn her, "I was kidding, I will not be back here for a very long time. You're too much of a liability."

"Aw, Rocky. C'mon."

She's giving me a toothy grin and it's taking all I have to keep a straight face, "You think you're funny," I trail off, having to look away before my smile breaks.

"You like me," she winks, "You think I'm adorable and I think you're pretty cute yourself."

This is how you know that she's drunk.

"Oh yeah? I think only one of those things is true," I play with her.

Of course I think she's adorable, drunk Rachel thinks everyone is adorable. It's fun to tease her.

"What? That I think you're cute? Well duh, Rock."

I blush and it just adds another layer of heat to my already hot cheeks, what with the alcohol and flirting. Luckily, the blush still appears as it was from the cold weather outside. No harm, no foul.

"Is that your new nickname for me?" I raise my eyebrow, "I don't very much like it."

It's kind of growing on me.

"You call me Doc," she tells me before laughing, "Rock and Doc."

"I only called you that to piss you off."

"It didn't work."

We're grinning at each other, still facing one another and somehow both sprawled out in the backseat of the car. I can't tell her limb from my own, I just know we're tangled and neither of us is making a move to disengage. Eventually the grin slides from my face, slowly but surely.

"You're really not the same person I remember from high school," I tell her, almost immediately sobering the both of us up a significant amount.

She occupies herself by playing with the ends of her scarf.

"I wouldn't say that."

I level her with a glare that she doesn't quite understand.

"You were a bitch."

She doesn't seem upset by my blunt label, "It was for show."

"Well then I guess the mask is off, so to speak at least."

She smirks, "So is yours."

"I wouldn't go that far," I reply.

I know she wants to pursue the topic but she lets it go. At least, I think she does.

"I'm sorry that I made you want to change so much."

I wave her off, not willing to accept her apology only because I don't want to talk about it.

"It's in the past."

"You were perfect the way you were," she meets my eyes with all trace of light humor gone, "still are," she adds softly.

I don't ask her why she gave me such a hard time in high school if she thought that, I don't want to know.

"I needed to change, at least to get to where I am now. If anything, I should be thanking you," I offer, noticing the obvious sadness that now envelops her body. Two months ago I would have laughed in someone's face if they told me I should thank Quinn Fabray for anything.

"No, _I_ should be thanking _you_. At least you changed me for the better. Wait. No, that came out wrong, I didn't mean—"

I laugh and decide to interject before she grows dizzy, "Quinn, its fine I know what you meant."

Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes like it has been all night, "You're beautiful, Rach. Truly. Inside and out."

I don't know how to react; I've never known how to react in intimate situations. Throw in a curveball like this and it's pretty much anything goes. No one has complimented me like that before and meant it. And I honestly believe she means it. If this was any other situation, Hell, if it were any other girl I'd have fucked her twice already in this backseat. She's not some random girl, she's Quinn Fabray and she's the beautiful one.

"What? No Rocky?" I ask, hoping to diffuse the moment, it's too heavy for me right now.

She's expressionless and I refuse to believe that I see hints of rejection.

But she's Quinn Fabray and masks are still her thing.

She smiles and lets out a healthy chuckle, before her eyes turn devious. And _Eye of the Tiger_ fills the car until my father pulls up three minutes later.

Quinn exits the car first, naturally, telling me that she has to protect me from the lava monster. She almost tucks and rolls into the back of my father's car after she shoves me inside. Neither of us bringing up the fact that the passenger seat was wide open but neither of us overlooking it either. Not even my father, who utterly hates driving at night, could get mad at Quinn for accidentally sending him on a wild goose chase. The goose being fairly intoxicated and it was proven when Quinn asked him why he was out chasing geese at this hour. Brittany.

"Are there head lights behind us?"

"No, Quinn. No one is following us."

We're both still ducked down in the back of his car, regardless of how many times we've asked if there was any suspicious activity from the trailing cars.

"Okay well, keep an eye out," I whisper, just for good measure.

He's had eight years, who knows the stuff he could have done in all that time. He could have wired my dad's car one night, or put booby traps in my back yard. Hell, he could have built an underground tunnel system around Lima.

Somehow Quinn has managed to convince me that it _is_ inevitable, Jacob is going to find us tonight and we are going to die.

"Sweetie, did you have tequila?" my dad asks.

Both our eyes go wide as we try to hold in our laughter, we mustn't do anything that would give away our guilt.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," he sighs to himself, he knows he loves it.

So busted. It's probably the most rebellious thing I've ever done while under his watch.

I bet he's just glad to have his daughter back. He can thank Quinn for that.

"We're home," he singsongs before hopping out of the car, probably to get back to his nightly reading.

"Love you, Daddy!" I call out after him

"Thanks, Mr. Berry!"

"I'm sure gonna miss you girls when you leave tomorrow," he blows us both kisses before shutting the door, Quinn attempts to catch the kiss and I can faintly hear him chuckling, "Couple a kids," as he walks up the pathway.

We're alone in silence, I don't know _why_ we're still sitting in the backseat but I'm sure Quinn's about to let me know. I don't know how long it's been either. Time and tequila don't get along very well.

"Okay, follow me. Don't get left behind."

"Don't leave me behind!" I yell, she better not even.

"Well then keep up!" she tells me as she's waiting on the sidewalk, what a great way to bring attention to ourselves.

"You're the one that is supposed to be protecting me!" I shriek when she yanks me out of the car.

I'm air born and I don't know how it's happened. Quinn's quite strong.

I yell into her shoulder as to not alarm the neighbors of my distress, or alert Jacob of our position, as Quinn reprimands. She sets me down once we're in the house and she locks all the doors, moving to the windows to peer out of them.

"Upstairs," she states.

She allows me to go first but once we reach the second floor she stands in front of me before moving into my bedroom. I'd think it was all very silly if I wasn't so turned on by the entire thing.

After thoroughly searching the bedroom, including under the bed at my request, she literally strips down, unabashed.

I avert my eyes as best as I can. There is no way in hell that I can find Quinn as attractive as I do. The feeling in my lower stomach will pass in a few moments. I can't deny how beautiful of a contrast the tingling in my palm is to the bite mark that Quinn left earlier.

Once she's in her signature grey shorts and _NYU_ hoodie that she's commandeered, she turns to look at me. I'm still in my clothing, coat and all. I was struck immobile the second I saw her stomach.

There's a rustling noise at the window and before I can voice to her that it's probably the tree that always hits the side of the house when it's windy, I'm thrown into the dark closet.

I hear Quinn shushing me from the other side. I'd feel safer if she were in here with me. I blindly find the light and take my time in finding some pajamas. If Quinn's proven anything within the past 5 minutes, it's that you can never be too thorough. She'd make a wonderful neighborhood watch guard.

I know that Jacob isn't outside on my tree; at least I think I know. I'm stalling for another reason entirely. Quinn and I have never discussed our sleeping arrangements, they've just happened. The first day in Lima was an emotional one and called for special circumstances in which I allowed Quinn to sleep in my room. Not that permission was really needed; I just told myself that so I wouldn't dwell on it too much. The second night was an emotional one for Quinn, and we didn't hesitate to use the special circumstance excuse again. Especially because we were basically already comfortable on my bed, there was no need to make a production out of getting up and going to our separate rooms. We'd been discussing Quinn's night with Beth. And my need to be close to her had _nothing_ to do with the cuddling session that went on during the Christmas movie we watched upon arriving home. None what-so-ever.

Tonight was different; it wasn't an emotionally taxing day. Unless you count the figurative walk down memory lane we both got lost on. It was filled with laughter. We played board games and cards with my father, we watched mini television marathons all afternoon, we'd gone to Breadstix, we got drunk. Even when we visited my father's grave earlier this morning, it was smiles and laughter as Quinn and I sat on a blanket and told the tombstone how we met back up again.

Did I want to sleep in the same bed as Quinn? Absolutely. Was it because it's been too long since sharing a bed with a warm body? Probably. Was it because the best part of sharing the bed with her was the waking up far closer than we fell asleep? No comment.

Panic shakes through my body when I realize that I haven't heard back from Quinn in a few minutes. It was absolutely silent. And I can't recall if I heard her shout for help, I was too lost in my own thoughts.

I pick up a heel and inch the closet door opened, preparing to give it hell if Jacob was actually standing in my bedroom. What I find instead has me tossing up between cooing and laughing.

Quinn is face down on my bed, clearly passed out. I chuckle and toss the stiletto behind me as I round the bed and grab an afghan blanket off of the rocking chair in the corner of my room. I don't have the heart to wake her and get her under the comforter. And I don't want to chance the uncomfortable uncertainty surrounding the sharing a bed debate should she wake up and realize that she's not in her guest room. I turn off the bedside lamp and gently slide onto the bed next to her, throwing the blanket over us. It will do for now but I know there's no way I can sleep through the night with only this thing covering me. I'll freeze to death.

I breathe out as I stare at the ceiling. At least I dodged the awkward bullet and still got what I wanted without having to voice it. I should have known that all this excitement for drunk Quinn would finally catch up to her, and I suppose I'll just have to assume that the room is Jacob free.

I feel Quinn's hand across my stomach, gripping my hip, before I'm being pulled towards her. I'm flush against her and I can feel the skin of her thighs against mine, her hand resting comfortably across my lower back, and my forehead settles under her chin.

"Quinn?" I whisper once it seems that she's done.

Surely she's sleep cuddling. Which, don't get me wrong, I'm all for it right now. For some reason I just wish it was conscious. She's sighing because her dream is happy.

"I _have_ to protect you," she whispers before placing a kiss on the top of my head.

The little devil wasn't sleeping after all. She tricked me. I guess we each have our own way of going about the bed sharing debate.

"My hero," I giggle softly into her neck, placing the tiniest of chaste kisses along the delicate skin there.

I feel her smiling against the top of my head and I smile as I imagine it. This is the first intimate situation I've been in that I've known how to react and it doesn't scare me in the slightest.

"Always."

And even if we've both seemed to lose our masks around each other finally, the alcohol will do a fine job of covering up this moment tomorrow.

Regardless, Lima isn't as bad as I remember. And I'll have to reconsider coming back here sooner, but only if Quinn is with me.

She's far from a liability.


	10. Chapter 10

I'm still on a high from the previous weekend; it'd be insufferable if I wasn't welcoming it wholeheartedly.

Quinn is unlike _any_ human being I've ever encountered. She's certainly not the same girl I endured in high school, even when she was pregnant for that brief nine month period of time. She's different, she's likeable, she's charming, she's almost addicting and it has come to my attention that I've taken an interest in her life, just a small interest though.

Nothing catastrophic or life altering.

Okay, maybe a little bit life altering.

"So, did you fuck her yet?"

"Jesse!" I squeal, dropping my menu, "Hardly an appropriate topic for a nice breakfast conversation."

His mischievous smile is playful, and a little knowing, which frightens me. He has such a devious glint in his eyes at all times, like he's always plotting something.

"You didn't?" he leans back in his chair, bouncing a little as he goes back, he throws his cell phone on the table next to his plate and runs a hand through his perfectly tamed hair, "You love her," he states.

My jaw drops open. How dare he even insinuate such a foreign concept, let only announce it like he would the weather. All confident and knowing.

"You're completely off-base here."

It was such a weak attempt and he probably knows it.

His words are still ringing in my ear, deafening my ear drum and making it quite difficult to focus on the menu in front of me. My neck feels hot and I wonder if it would be entirely appropriate if I were to dump my glass of water over my head. I need a mimosa.

"You're in denial."

He's one of those people that know you better than you know yourself. Which is strange considering you'd believe that he would be entirely about himself. He is, but he just has an amazing talent when it comes to reading me. It's a real pain in my ass. I'm having a hard enough time lying to myself and now I have to lie to this jackass too?

"You're completely off-base."

His smile cracks wider and his eyes narrow, determined.

"You've already said that."

I attempt a quirky comeback, something that would make everything about the situation normal. Merely just another breakfast with my best friend, bantering and bickering about the business, discussing who's new on the scene and who is now irrelevant, what designer to wear to upcoming parties, just a normal get together at our favorite bistro.

No. Instead, I have to defend myself because I used the same string of words as a response twice in a row. Christ, it's not like I wore the same dress twice in one weekend or lost _US Weekly_'s who wore it best poll to Amy Fucking Winehouse. _That_ would be something worth this torture.

"I haven't seen you in over two months, humor me won't you?" he laughs, as if it's going to make me open up to him. I'm not crazy.

I sigh and set down my menu, I've known what I was getting for ten minutes and I'm afraid it's no longer going to settle for a suitable means of distraction. Especially with Jesse's piercing eyes that are almost unavoidable. They're like heat seeking missiles and my own eyes are hotter than the sun. It doesn't matter how hard I attempt to avoid them, they'll find me anyway.

"Fine, I'll humor you. Make your point so we can get this over with," I cross my arms over my chest and also lean back in my chair.

He chuckles softly and leans forward, I remain still.

"I go on a European tour, I leave behind my best friend, the malicious and self proclaimed Bitch of the East, and I come back to her body double with no trace of the former girl. You haven't glared at anyone in 20 minutes, you haven't said one hateful thing about someone, not even your publicist, whom you hate. And you're going to sit there and tell me that this doesn't have to do with Quinn Fabray?

Okay, just because I haven't spoken my distaste for other people aloud, doesn't mean that I've gone soft. For example, I want to shave Jesse's precious locks right off his head and then I want to choke him with that god-awful brown leather necklace he insists on wearing all the time. As for my atrocious publicist, she can go play in traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge or play chicken with the 7 train.

"Of course it does, she's my therapist."

Duh, wasn't he listening when I explained the situation to him earlier? Obviously she has something to do with it, she forces me to be nice to people and then she disguises it as an assignment. I was onto her schemes the first week of sessions.

"Who you've developed feelings for."

Let's see if I get this straight.

"So because I listen to her, it automatically means that I have feelings for her?"

His logic is seriously flawed. Right?

"Sweetheart, you don't listen to anyone. You and your assistant are practically best friends now and there is absolutely no bite to your bark. Which, by the way, is once again over exaggerated and as polite as possible. Who are you?"

_Oh_, I'll tell him who I am.

I begin to speak but he cuts me off before I get the chance to voice my argument.

"Oh! And how could I forget to mention that the therapist in _question_ is the sole person behind the way you are today, _and_ probably the only person who could be labeled as a bigger and certainly more vindictive bitch than you."

Gasp!

"Quinn is not a bitch."

I close my eyes as soon as it passes my lips. I'm _so_ fucked. I can't believe I just stood up for her like that.

He's completely shocked but his face shows none of his reaction. He remains neutral; if anything it only pleases him that I just confirmed his entire theory.

He rubs his temples and sets his elbows on the table.

"Okay," he drawls out through a sigh, "this is more serious than I thought."

God, he's such a cliché drama queen.

"How do you figure?"

"When's the last time you slept with someone?" he asks, looking up finally, almost wincing in anticipation.

I avoid his eyes and he has his answer.

"I wouldn't be as concerned if you—"

"You shouldn't even be concerned, _nothing_ is going on."

"But you want there to be, _and_ you ended your arrangement with Tristan, that means something."

He's acting like a lawyer on a major court case.

Elle Woods needs to slow his roll.

I'm not amused.

"It means that I was sick of dating someone as a cover."

Honestly, is that so hard to believe?

"At Quinn's recommendation?" He's prying now and grasping at straws.

"Maybe," I cross my arms over my chest, "that doesn't mean anything."

He wants to argue, he wants to win, he wants to convince me of what I already know but he pulls back.

"Okay, if you say there's nothing going on then there isn't."

I nod my appreciation at the drop of the subject.

It was seriously getting heated between us and we are very capable of going back and forth for hours if necessary.

We're silent for a few seconds before I pick up the menu again, forgetting what the name of my entrée was called.

"So why haven't you at least slept with her out of spite and moved on?" he asks curiously, almost innocently.

I groan.

"She doesn't do one night stands," I reply as I search the elegant script.

Shit.

"So you_ do_ want to sleep with her!"

Well I just sealed my fate. I might as well write it in skywriting or buy out some ad space in Times Square. I might as well just give in.

"Maybe a little."

I mean c'mon, who wouldn't? She's beautiful.

"Can you just admit it already? You have feelings for her."

He's still wearing his leather jacket and it's bothering me.

"Fine, yes. Happy?"

Where the fuck is the waitress?

"No. You're going to get hurt."

I can't win.

"It's been 8 years since high school Jess, we're both adults and everything that happened in the past is obviously over."

He looks like I just told him Elton John isn't really gay.

"You're making a colossal mistake," he singsongs after he recovers.

I glare at him, "Whatever, it's not even like she still has feelings for me so nothing will ever come from this. I have a few more sessions left and then I'll be free from her and her office."

God damn it. Maybe I wouldn't keep slipping up if the damn waitress would have come ten minutes ago like she was supposed to, I would have had my starter fruit salad and my mouth would be preoccupied.

Maybe he won't catch it.

"_Still?_ Are you telling me—"

"Drop it, I mean it."

He ignores me, and honestly I wasn't expecting anything less.

"She actually told you she used to have feelings for you? And furthermore, you _believed_ her?"

Ugh.

Why is he insinuating that I shouldn't trust her?

"Not exactly, Kurt mentioned it and judging by Quinn's reaction, yeah, I'd say it's pretty believable."

I leave out the fact that she pretty much admitted it before Ohio.

"Kurt as in Hummel?"

I nod.

"Jesus, what a big gay happy family," he rolls his eyes, I know it's only because he's jealous he missed out on all of these developments and is only hearing about them now, "so tell me about this _assignment_, ya know, the one that conveniently landed you back in Lima?"

Finally the waitress comes back with Jesse's appetizer and my fruit and then takes our actual order, buying me some more time on how to appease him without giving him too much information about our trip. I rather like having something that just the two of us shared together.

"I've already told you everything that happened, I got drunk on the plane there, we cried, we laughed, we cried some more, we laughed some more, we drank, we laughed harder, and we were hung over on the plane home."

"What hotel did she stay at?"

He knows this is a dead-end route and he's about to trap me in a lie. I might as well be honest before he calls the _only_ hotel in Lima and demands to know if she actually stayed there.

"We stayed at Daddy's," his eyebrow raises and I damn him to hell for having such a skill, "we shared a bed all three nights, nothing happened, we were just emotional. It was, if you'll recall, the first time I was home since my Dad died and Quinn was meeting her daughter for the first time, and well the last night, we were too drunk to realize that we technically had separate rooms."

I don't think we ever realized that we had separate rooms. Not even Quinn's suitcase was in the spare bedroom. It was laid out on the floor next to mine, clothes sprawled about the room. I have the strangest suspicion that she stole my _NYU_ sweatshirt, and I'm sure plenty of her clothing managed to end up in my own suitcase.

"I see."

He shakes his head and laughs, reaching to finally begin eating his appetizer. Who gets chicken fingers as an appetizer, are you five? It's 9 in the fucking morning. That's why it took so long for me to get my fruit salad, it's because the diva across from me threw a hissy fit when they said that they weren't serving lunch.

"Stop looking at me like that."

Internally I'm dying to continue talking about everything that happened between us. I feel like that annoying friend that continuously talks about how great their first boyfriend is, even though the friends think he's a total douche bag.

"I don't like her," he states casually halfway through our main meal.

I drop my fork and it startles me.

I take a few deep breaths. He's just trying to get a rise out of me to see how I'll react over this.

I grit my teeth and attempt to remain as impartial as possible, "Why the fuck not?"

Failing effortlessly.

He shrugs, it infuriates me like nothing else.

"I've never liked her."

Wow, thanks for answering my question, asshole.

"Yes, but why?"

"She treated you horribly."

I laugh, it's actually kinda funny. They both seem very protective over me.

"She said the same thing about you," I grin.

"Charming, I don't trust her and you shouldn't either."

"I wanted to rip your voice box out in high school and now look at us. I still want to do that but I trust you at least," I smile, "You're my best friend," I remind him.

He laughs and reaches across the table, placing his hand over mine.

"Clearly, you trust too easily."

"I'm pretty sure there are thousands of people that would disagree with you, I rarely trust people."

He runs his thumbs over the back of my hand.

"But you trust her?"

Do I trust her? She hasn't done anything to make me _not_ trust her. If anything she's done everything that she could do to _gain_ my trust. She hasn't put me in harm's way, she doesn't push or pressure me, she hasn't lost her patience with me, and she's even gone out of her way to make me feel comfortable. It wasn't one big thing, it was the little things.

It was walking to my apartment so that we could arrive to the restaurant together, it was wanting to go out in public with me regardless of the risks, it was firing her receptionist so I wouldn't be uncomfortable, it was her not getting too drunk in order to take care of me, and then it was her _getting_ too drunk and _still_ taking care of me. She was like a superhero.

"I do," I answer softly, "I really do," I reiterate more confidently.

"I care about you too much to see you get hurt," he says tenderly, he's just looking out for his best friend, I'd expect nothing less from him, he's been this way since reconnecting.

He truly was looking out for my best interests at all times.

I glance down at our hands, suddenly finding them way more interesting than his concerned eyes.

"Why do you assume that I'm going to get hurt?" I ask gently, our food is entirely forgotten.

"She has your trust and it's only a matter of time before she somehow has your heart."

I look up, feeling all too vulnerable for a quaint bistro, "Would that be such a bad thing?"

He frowns slightly, understanding completely.

"Maybe," he replies, "I think she's the only one capable of breaking it."

And I know it's 100% true.

But I also know that I can no longer ignore everything at the risk of playing it safe.

I didn't play it safe when I first started in New York so why should I start now?

I need to listen to _Defying Gravity_ on repeat when I get back to my apartment. That song always tells me what to do.

"I love you too much, Rach."

I wiggle my hand away from his grasp, only so I can swipe away the few stray tears that have somehow managed to escape from my tear ducts.

I know he's not trying to rain on my parade—Oh, another one for the playlist—on purpose but just trying to be a good friend.

"I love you too, Jess."

But I refuse to let him ruin this for me.

I just simply cannot ignore the last few weeks with her in my life.

The lingering looks, shy glances, the casual flow of conversation, finishing of each other's sentences, how my side of the bed is the opposite of hers, they're all things that won't leave my mind. We got _wasted_ at a family restaurant and had the time of our lives, she beat _me_ in Scrabble and gloated about it for an hour, and then let me beat her in Candy Land, even though I'd been briefed for twenty minutes the night before of her game strategies.

She let me dig my fingers into her arm because I hate flying, and silently offered me her arm while we boarded the plane home. I didn't even need it, her presence calmed me enough. In fact, the both of us were passed out cold against one other before we even took off. The stewardess had to wake us up upon landing. Talk about embarrassing.

I know Jesse doesn't understand, and I don't think he ever will. And somehow, I'm oddly okay with it. I wish I could give him something more, explaining just _why_ I'm not afraid anymore. He'll just worry about me. So, he doesn't need to know how much fun I had with her while baking and delivering all of the Christmas cookies, and he'd only grow more concerned if he were to learn that Beth was coming to visit the both of us during her Spring vacation. His concern would further grow if he were to learn of my father's approval; that he simply adores Quinn Fabray.

He deserves to know; it's just the best friend law. You tell them everything.

He absolutely deserves to know that Quinn and I are meeting for dinner on Thursday but I won't tell him because he'd only want to protect me, and I don't need protection. Not from Quinn.

* * *

The phone rings twice before it picks up and I glance at my watch. It's a long shot but I needed to hear her voice.

"What's wrong?" she immediately asks, she's not alarmed but concerned.

It's her nature.

I breathe out, it's so soothing.

"Nothing, just wanted to see what you were up to," I answer, it was a lame attempt that I'm sure she'll see right through.

"Rach?"

I don't respond. I _can't_ respond. She'd hear my voice wavering. How can someone make me feel like crying just by hearing them say my name?

"Talk to me."

I can do this. I've survived four interviews with Chelsea Handler, surely I can mask my voice to make it sound like I'm tired, and not on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I count to three in my head and concentrate on what I'm going to get from the grocery store later. I've decided to cook dinner tonight. Making moves.

"Would it be entirely lame if I told you that I just missed your voice?"

Well that wasn't what I was planning on saying. There is something seriously wrong with my motor skills, why aren't they listening to my brain. I'm pretty sure my mind told them to ask her if she had any good recipes that I could make. So much for that. Traitor.

She doesn't respond for a few seconds.

God, I'm so pathetic, I just saw her yesterday. I can't even go one day without talking to her? What's become of my legacy?

"Where are you?" she asks.

That's a great question. I glance around.

Oh of course, because it's not enough that I had to call her, but I had to be walking near her office building. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me?

"Walking down Houston."

"What are you doing over here? And it's freezing out, why are you walking?"

It's only been like three days since Christmas, of course it's freezing out. Would I know that? No. I'm numb to everything. There's not even any snow on the ground, this place sucks. Ohio has snow.

What was I doing before I decided to throw away all of my pride?

"I just came from breakfast with Jesse," I answer.

"Oh."

I don't let myself dwell on the jealousy I hear in her voice. I feel like at this point, it would only get my hopes up.

I laugh, "Yeah, _Oh_."

"Do you want me to come see you?" she asks.

I wonder if she would if I told her yes. I don't even have to wonder, I know she would.

"Don't you have an eleven o'clock?"

I'm pretty sure she does.

"No."

I crack a smile, maybe she can hear it through the phone, "You're lying."

I switch the hand my phone is in, my fingers feel frostbitten. My cold hand goes into my jacket pocket and the warm one takes over the phone holding duties. They'll have to compromise.

"They won't mind," she replies.

Then they're stupid. Who wouldn't mind having their session cancelled? Especially when they get to sit on the white couch for an hour.

"What happened to the responsible and professional therapist Dr. Fabray?"

She laughs, "She's been corrupted by Rachel Berry."

I laugh in harmony with her for a few beats, people are being corrupted left and right around here.

"As much as I want to say blow off your _crazy_, I can't let you do that. Someone needs saving," I exhale.

I tuck my chin into my scarf, gathering as much warmth as I can. Once Quinn mentioned the weather I'm starting to notice it more and more.

"It sounds like that person is you."

How does she always know what to say?

"Will you at least talk to me on the phone until they get there?"

"Of course."

I hear her breathe out contently and I imagine that she's just sat on the white couch in her office. I continue to walk aimlessly down the street near her office, wishing that I had a couch to sit on. I contemplate walking into one of the coffee shops along the side of the road, maybe they have a nice chair that I could find comfort in.

"So, how'd your lunch with Jesse go?" she asks

I let the question run around in my head, taking my time to respond.

"Did I make a mistake in letting my guard down around you?"

I can practically see her frowning.

"Rachel, what did he say to you?" she has hints of irritation in her tone and I feel bad for even bringing it up.

This was such a stupid idea.

"Nothing really."

Even though I know she's bothered, she still manages to laugh, "You know you're a horrible liar, right?"

I used to be a good liar. Until I met you.

Or maybe no one cared enough to call me out.

"I was just wondering," I recover.

Jesse made me promise that I wouldn't bring it up to Quinn, probably because he knows that she can probably kick his ass. He admitted to me in High school that he was absolutely terrified of her while he attended McKinley, something about her shooting daggers at him whenever he saw her.

"Can I ask you a question first?"

I roll my eyes playfully, typical therapist. It makes me smile.

"Be my guest."

There's some ruffling on her end of the phone, "Hold on," she tells me

It's a few seconds before she comes back on, "Do you have to go?"

I shouldn't be sad at the prospect of her leaving.

"No, it's fine."

And I shouldn't be _this_ relieved that she doesn't have to go yet.

"So…your question?"

"What?"she asks absentmindedly, "Oh right, Do _you_ think you made a mistake?"

She can't just turn the question back on me like that.

"That's not fair."

How am I even supposed to answer that? I wouldn't even know where to begin.

"Look, I don't know what he said to you but if he's making you second guess yourself then I'm assuming whatever he said about me is easy for you to believe."

I can hear the pain behind her voice. I feel ashamed of myself. It's like the biggest slap in the face for me to write her off this quickly.

But am I really that out of line? I've haven't even known _her_ for two months, this person is completely different from the person that dumped milk on my head the first day of freshman year, even though she knew I was vegan back then. I don't think she's capable of something so cruel anymore, but how would I ever know? How would I ever _truly_ know?

"Would you intentionally hurt me?"

"Are you seriously asking me this?"

I was seriously asking her. She's making me feel like it's the most preposterous thing she's ever heard in her life.

"We've been meeting for two months, what did he say to you that has you doubting this?" she adds after my silence.

I shrug to myself, "He's my voice of reason," I tell her softly, "He's my rock."

"What am I?"

You're absolutely everything.

"You're my therapist," I laugh humorlessly.

This is tortuous.

"Does that mean he automatically wins?"

Honestly? You'd win every time. But that would only be relevant if there was something between us. And there isn't so what do I have to worry about?

"He would never steer me wrong," I reply.

"It baffles me that you still believe I would."

How she can still be so composed is the baffling part, she hasn't raised her voice once. She's the calmest I've ever heard her.

"I never said that."

Meanwhile, I'm unraveling faster than a ball of twine if it were tied to the top of the empire state building and thrown off.

"Can you clue me into what you're trying to actually say?"

"Countless people have let me down in my life, I've gotten hurt a lot in the cross fires."

She waits a few beats before replying.

"I would never put you in a position to get hurt."

I sigh, "I know, Quinn."

I just needed to hear it.

"Why do you sound so upset?"

"I'm just in a weird mood, it'll pass."

I can picture her smiling her genuine smile, "You know I worry about you," I wish I could see it.

"Is your patient there yet?"

"What? Oh, yeah. She's one of the crazy ones, too."

I chuckle, somehow she can brighten my mood so easily. I don't even think she knows what she's doing. After spending the weekend with her, I just constantly picture her with a goofy grin on her face and bright hazel eyes full of childish amusement.

"Sounds like you've got your hands full."

"You have _no_ idea."

There's something about the way she says it that makes me believe there's some kind of deeper meaning that only she's aware of. A secret just for herself that she's begging to explain to me one day.

"I better let you go," I exhale into the phone.

The hot air from my mouth makes white smoke in the cold air, it reminds me of Quinn. I'm on the phone with her and I _literally _miss her. This is far from normal.

"Okay, do me a favor and turn around?"

"What?" I ask as I whip my body around.

Quinn's grinning with the phone held next to her ear a couple of yards behind me.

"Are you serious?" I call out.

She shrugs and sends me a small smirk, "You think you could call me, sounding like _that_, and not expect me to do something about it? Especially when you're a block from my office? C'mon, I thought you knew me better than that."

She has on a white pea-coat with a dark green scarf today, her hair is wavy and I want to run my fingers through it. Even our outfits have chemistry. My red pea-coat and white scarf have found their match made in holiday heaven.

"You're unbelievable," I grin, still in a bit of shock, I wasn't actually expecting to see her, "What about your eleven o'clock?"

She waves it off, "I told her I had an emergency and that I'd be back in ten minutes."

I don't let my face fall.

"You should go back, I'm sure whoever it is needs you," I tell her.

I'd be pissed if I was told to wait ten minutes for my therapist to start our session. Mostly because I don't like waiting. I'm impatient and irrational and my needs come first normally. Such a pickle I'm in. Should I be selfish or understanding?

"Yeah well, you need me."

I scoff, "I do not!"

Her cheekbones are really defined when she smiles sometimes.

"Sweetheart, you're a horrible liar."

Yeah, she's said that already.

"I'm sorry that I bothered you with such nonsense."

"It wasn't nonsense."

It was. I shouldn't have let Jesse put those thoughts in my head. I was fine with my _own_ thoughts, I don't need any more.

"I appreciate it," I offer.

I know that it's easier to just let her have this one. We could go back and forth all day about whether or not it was really nonsense.

She glances at her watch and I know it's not because she wants to hurry this little impromptu meeting up but because she wants to know how much more time we have.

"I'll walk you back?"

She gives me a close lipped smile, "I'd like that."

We walk in a slow stride back the way she came from, I can see her building towering over some of the smaller establishments, it's only a block away. Not nearly enough time.

"You don't happen to have any _advil_ do you?"

I snicker quietly to myself, "Why on earth do you need _advil_?"

She scratches her head, "I think I'm still hungover from Sunday night."

It's now Tuesday morning.

I'm laughing hard. I nudge into her side by accident as I hold my stomach.

"Are you serious?"

"Did you see how much I drank?"

"Oh I _saw,_" I reply.

Her cheeks flush an insane amount. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt, maybe it's just the cold weather or the reflection off my jacket that has them so brightly colored.

"Right, about that…"

I turn to look at her, eyebrow raised and waiting for her response.

She seems to be embarrassed once again and this time I'm not crediting the weather or reflection. She's bashful.

"I'm sorry if I was out of line."

I wonder if she's referring to the words she was spelling in cursive on my lower back the following morning before we had to get up and leave for the airport. _Quinn Fabray was here _will forever be etched into my skin by hot fingertips. I definitely think she was still drunk.

"Oh, you _mean_ my bite mark?"

She giggles into both of her hands as she covers her face, she nods up and down with wide eyes, still laughing. She's trying to compose herself.

"Yes, exactly what I was referring to," she reaches out and grabs my hand unceremoniously, running her fingers over my palm. The bite mark has been gone for some time.

"Yes well, I figuratively bitch slapped your father so call it even."

She drops my hand.

"Ah yes, well he deserved it. And my mother said it took her two hours and a Xanax to sedate him," she grins mischievously.

I am _scared_ of her.

"So you remember everything?" I ask hesitantly, almost wincing.

I don't know if I want her to remember or if I want her to forget.

"Course I do, Rocky," she nudges me with her shoulder as we come to a stop in front of her revolving doors.

My hand smacks my forehead, it's very elementary school of me, but she makes me feel like that.

"Oh, I almost forgot." she fumbles with something in her pocket, "Here." she hands me the stress ball from her office.

I feel like crying.

How can I jump from one emotion to another in a matter of seconds when she's around?

"Thank you," I breathe out.

She wraps her arms around me and I soak in the warmth that her body is providing me. It's entirely too long to consider a friendly and appropriate hug and I clear my throat before people start staring.

"Call me if you need anything?"

I nod and avert my eyes to the ground; I've already begun pumping the ball with my fist.

"We're talking about this Jesse incident tomorrow at our session," she's adamant on it and I'll give her that.

"Okay."

"I'll see you tomorrow?" she asks.

I don't know why she even has to bother asking.

* * *

The breakfast I had with Jesse yesterday morning is continuing to play through my mind. But only because I didn't stick up for Quinn more. His random teasing texts are somewhat of his trademark and they've been missed greatly since he's been overseas. The content of his text messages are somewhat unwelcomed but I've learned to put up with them because it's just who he is. He expresses his doubt through humor.

**Sleep with her so you can sue her for breach of contract, that'll be ultimate payback**

He's still not entirely sure of the relationship that Quinn and I have developed and I suppose he never will, but at least his texts have graduated from trying to prove what we're doing is somehow incestual and they're now about extracting revenge.

**Perhaps I should consider egging you on a red carpet next year, full circle don't you think?**

I know he'll think twice now about voicing his concerns.

When I'm not thinking of clever responses to Jesse's texts, my thoughts are on Quinn.

"Rach?"

Lauren.

"Hey Laur! I'm in my room," I reply.

Yup, been in my room all morning, I attempted to fall back to sleep after waking up an hour ago, for some reason I'm still drained from the weekend. But instead I started thinking about today's session and wondering how much closer Quinn and I will become. Our short spontaneous meet up on SoHo earlier yesterday morning was somewhat serious and emotional. Not incredibly emotional but there were a lot of emotions I felt. Our texting later that day had been made up entirely of faux insults of what we're like when we're drunk. My heart jumped every time I felt the vibration in my hand.

It's not that I'm giddy; it's that I don't ever recall being _this_ giddy to see someone. Even if there is nothing going on. Who am I kidding, something is _so_ going on. It's the beginnings of something, at the very least. The only good thing that actually came out of my breakfast with Jesse is that it further confirmed what I was just starting to accept, I have a blaringly obvious crush on Quinn Fabray. Not just the kind of crush where I obsess over something for a few days until something better comes along. No. This _is_ the better that has finally come along, and I want her to stay for good. Sometimes I see my feelings reciprocated back to me in her eyes, it's the only thing that makes me realize that I'm not crazy, just crazy about her. It's pretty easy to see how it started and how I let it get to where it is now. That's what happens when you deny something for so long, when you finally entertain the idea, it consumes you until it's all you think about. When you give a mouse a cookie, right?

It's not that I've labeled our dinner arrangements on Thursday a date—per say—but it's not as if I've only considered it as a business dinner either. Okay, so I've been treating it as a date in my mind. It's the _only_ explanation for my nerves and anxiety. It's becoming annoying that I have to keep reminding myself that we're not even together, and that I've only just accepted her as my friend a few weeks ago, but I can't help but plan our future. That's what Rachel Berry does, she plans, she hopes, she wishes and she makes it happen. I've never wanted anything as badly, save for my Grammy awards, because let's face it, I'm still Rachel Berry. I've refused to give in to my growing temptation to use computer software and poster tri-folds in order to map out various plans of attack in operation _get the girl_, but it doesn't mean that it's not all in my mind. I feel like a child again after my parents purchased me my first lottery ticket, planning all the extravagant things that I'd do with the millions of dollars upon winning.

But Quinn is priceless.

I don't hear my assistant making any effort to come into my room, or even closer for that matter but I do hear the television, and I realize she must not have heard me. Or maybe she believes I'm still asleep. I get out of bed and walk barefoot down the hallway, hearing the ramblings of one of the entertainment channel's _investigative_ journalists, talking about whatever celebrity was on the chop block that day. No shame. Luckily since under Quinn's watchful eye, I've in fact turned my image around.

"_It was only a matter of time before resident diva, Rachel Berry, made her way back into the spotlight; it seems she can't stay out of the public's attention for too long. And not too long after her split with longtime beau, Tristan McNally. The breakup, which both parties claimed was a mutual decision and wish each other nothing but the best, was all people could talk about until it fizzled into the background. The sexuality of both sides of the power couple has been a long time topic of conversation but now there's new evidence that Berry is not only into women but has been unfaithful to her A-list ex-boyfriend during their year courtship. Now, new pictures are surfacing of Berry looking mighty smitten with a mysterious blonde on more than one occasion. And if you think that's news worthy, stay tuned after the break to find out the identity of her secret lover."_

"Shit," Lauren mumbles under her breath, her phone blaring to life as soon as the program cuts to commercial.

"What. The. FUCK?"

Lauren jumps at my voice and turns around quickly, all color is drained from her face and her eyes are wide and fearful.

"Rachel!" she squeaks, "I thought you were still asleep."

"No, very much awake. Care to explain what I just heard?"

I'm seeing red, and I'd pass out from the dizziness if I wasn't so apt to learn what the hell these scumbags were talking about and how they got any of this information.

"An anonymous source went to the press, it's on the cover of every fucking tabloid from here to LA."

"I'm dreaming," I sit on the couch, unwilling to accept this, "Who the hell is this anonymous source? And what could they possibly have on me?"

And why the _fuck_ am I always the last to know about things like this!

Lauren picks up one of the ten magazines and starts flipping through it, "I haven't even been able to look at anything written" she mutters to herself, "Your publicist and I have been meeting with lawyers all morning and calling the websites to take down the pictures, and, and…"

Damn, she looks like this is happening to her.

"Lauren, breathe. And tell me what they have on me and how serious this is."

She looks up, almost dreadfully. God, I'm fucked.

"The _female _source claims to have had sexual relations with you."

"Hearsay," I demand, "Slander, or fuck, something. This is easily fixable."

Lauren holds up the magazine, pictures spread across two pages, small black font and a serious back hand to the face.

"Quinn," I whisper, my eyes seeing the blonde with me in _every_ single picture, "This isn't happening."

"It is, and it's not as easily fixable as it appears. Normally, we could just deny it but the fact that she's your therapist puts a whole new spin on this shit," she's talking a mile a minute.

"No one knows she's my therapist," I counter, snatching the magazine out of her hands to let my eyes run over the pages, too shocked to even get upset yet.

"Apparently this source has proof."

"How did this happen?" I shout, Lauren winces but her brave face is back on seconds later.

"I don't know."

"That's not good enough, god dammit!"

Quinn. She's going to lose her job. She's going to lose everything because of me. Because I couldn't just keep my legs closed, because I had to be arrogant and careless and slut it up. I deserve this, Quinn doesn't deserve to be a part of this mess, doesn't deserve to be brought down with my scandals and drama. She's too above all of this.

"Rach, there's more."

"I don't want to know."

I don't want to know anything else until I process what I've already learned. And until I think about what I'm going to say to Quinn to make this up to her.

"You might," she replies slowly.

I turn around impatiently, "Tell me, now."

"Quinn sought you out."

"Define and elaborate." I demand, she doesn't make a move to speak, "Now!" I yell her out of her stupor.

The red is back in the corners of my eyes.

"She somehow convinced the judge to put you under her watch, to allow you under her care. She's the reason that she's your therapist."

It couldn't be true. I refuse to believe it.

"How do you know this?"

She gestures towards the magazines, "It's all in there, documents, signatures, and everything. Someone has a serious vendetta against you."

"Fucking Jocelyn!" I throw the magazine across the room and Lauren has to duck, I don't even stick around to apologize, I'm in my room before I can blink. I don't remember running.

"Jocelyn?" she calls out in question.

"That receptionist from Quinn's office the first day," I yell as I rifle through my clothing that's laying on my closet floor, looking for the first suitable thing to wear outside, "Find Jocelyn Rogers and execute her."

I throw a white v-neck over my head and shimmy into some jeans.

"That sounds a bit harsh."

I slip on some kind of outdoor slipper and find a sweatshirt.

"Then freeze her assets, I don't care, I don't think you want me to handle this one."

"You're right," she nods definitively as I appear back in the living room, "Where are you going?"

"Quinn's," I answer, trying to mental checklist things that I may need.

A bat is on the top of that list but I've never been an athlete.

"That's not a good idea," Lauren voices from somewhere behind me, I look around the kitchen, eyeing the silverware drawer.

I can see why she may think this is not a good idea.

"Sure it is, I'm just going to talk to her," I tell her, shoving some things around until I find what I'm looking for, I pull out the knife, "And then kill her."

"Absolutely not!" Lauren screams and she yanks the weapon out of my hand before I even have a chance to use it on her, I grab a wooden spoon as my next weapon of choice, "Okay, I won't kill her, trust me," she doesn't know I sometimes suffer from rage blackouts.

"Okay, Rachel? You're doing the exact opposite of convincing me to trust you."

I shrug and move past her, her reflexes are quick and the spoon is yanked from my hand.

I keep moving, knowing if I stop for a second she'll tackle me and subdue me before I can get to the office. I grab one of the magazines off of the countertop before she can prevent me.

"Your appointment isn't for another two hours!" she yells, I'm already in the hallway and next to the elevator by the time her voice reaches me.

I don't even wait for the car that she's surely called to take me to Quinn's, I hail the first yellow cab I see and don't even second guess the disgusting filth that I'm sitting in. Quinn had some serious explaining to do.

I read everything the magazine says, I read the captions under the pictures and refuse to let myself smile at how happy we are in said pictures. Pictures from Ohio, pictures from our night out with old acquaintances, even a few pictures of us in the park. Jesus, was I really that caught up in Quinn that I didn't even see these assholes lurking in the bushes? I refuse to entertain the idea that this could have been real, that this was something I wanted twenty minutes ago. Quinn Fabray was dead to me as far as anyone was concerned. At least in this moment.

**Call me right now**

"Shut up, Jesse," I yell at the phone, the cab driver pulls alongside a curb and I throw green bills at him, not caring how much it is.

The scene outside of the office building is a madhouse, a literal circus. A complete opposite picture of what it was yesterday when I walked her back. If I wasn't so adamant on kicking some Fabray ass, I'd have gotten right back into the cab and gone home. Not today. Not when I had so many questions. Not when I craved to hear Quinn's explanations and declaration of feelings, it was the only thing that would save her at this point. Because as much as I wanted to hate her in this moment, I knew I couldn't possibly.

Of course, it was like a paparazzi's wet dream when they noticed me. The center of the controversy, showing up at their 'secret lovers' place of work, it was like Christmas and midnight on New Years. Throw in 4th of July as well, that's how bright the flashes were. I could practically hear the _cha-ching _with each picture snapped. The security finally did what they were being paid to do and the 19th floor seemed to come exceptionally slower than usual on this morning.

The receptionist's phone was literally ringing off the hook.

"Dr. Fabray's office, please hold. Dr. Fabray's office, please hold. Miss Berry! No, not you. Please hold," she puts the phone down and I don't even bother to stop and ask her if she's seeing anyone in her office. I know she is.

"Dr. Fabray is with a patient," she attempts, it was a nice effort.

I throw the door open to find Quinn sitting in a random chair I've never seen before while one of her patients sits on the couch. _My_ couch.

"Quinn. What the fuck?"

"Rachel," she shifts nervously, "What are you doing here? I'm in the middle of a session," she doesn't even reprimand me for my rude behavior.

She infuriates me even more. She doesn't even treat me like a normal patient. How do I get away with so much?

"What am _I_ doing here? Well if you want to speak technically, it's because _you_ convinced a judge that I'd be best under your care."

Her face goes chalk white, and it's about five shades paler than her skin tone is on a normal day. She pulls at the collar of her shirt; a type of shirt that she hasn't worn to the office on a Wednesday in nearly 6 weeks, a shirt that I'm starting to realize gets replaced with something different before I come for my sessions. She's wearing a grey vest over her blouse, a navy blue tie loosely around her neck. She fidgets with the tie. It's almost comical, the movie cliché that she's displaying right now, the sure sign of being completely guilty and nervous. I'd jump her if I wasn't so blood boiling mad at her right now. God damn, those glasses are driving me wild inside.

"Can we talk about this later?" she asks, no, begs.

"No."

I throw the magazine at her and she ducks before she realizes that it's harmless. I'd have thrown my wooden spoon at her too if it wasn't stolen from me by Lauren.

"Page 23," I tell her, it's already opened to the page though.

I sneer at the patient who's gawking at me.

"If a word of this lands in the paper, I'll go after you with everything I've got," I threaten the woman. I even start rolling up the sleeves of my sweatshirt.

"Rachel!" Quinn yells horrified, I ignore her, "She's kidding," she tries to ensure her patient.

"I am most certainly not, you'll be next on my list after I go after this asshole," I gesture towards Quinn.

"You don't mean that," she replies, her eyes still tracing over the paper, she's not amused, she's not smug, she doesn't seem all knowing like she normally does. She's almost pleading, she almost afraid. She has every reason to be.

"Tell me it's not true," I demand once she's looked up from the paper and pictures, I know by her face that I'm not going to get the response I want.

"Rach, I—"

"This is all of your fault, do you realize this?"

She nods, "I had no—"

"Don't speak. I'm speaking. You brought me here, you lied to me, and you've been playing with my mind the _entire_ time."

She cuts me off anyway and it only enrages me further, "I was going to tell you."

I scoff, "When it was all said and done? After you molded me into this perfect Rachel Berry that you've been dreaming about since College? Screw you, Quinn."

"Rach—"

"I'd prefer RuPaul or some other ridiculous name you created, if you're going to be a manipulative bitch at least go all out."

She looks like I've just physically slapped her. The thought _had_ crossed my mind while I was on the painfully slow elevator; I guess this is just as good. At least I'll avoid the assault charge.

"Look this is fixable," she stands finally and nervously approaches me, momentarily forgetting she has a very confused person on her couch, "We haven't done anything illegal, everything was an assignment," she says lowly, "everything is going to be just fine," she's trying to assure me and I wish I could believe her.

"Everything is not going to be _just _fine, Quinn! They have pictures of us, they know you're my therapist, they have a lot of shit on us. There is a parade of picture taking, blood thirsty vultures outside of your building right now!"

She looks panicked, her eyes looking towards her window as if she's literally going to see vultures flying around and snapping pictures of our exchange, her eyes glance at her patient before they find mine again, "Nothing's going on between us, Rachel," she almost growls, it's unlike anything I've ever heard before.

I stop and look at her, truly perplexed. Honestly stumped. And it hits me. Of course.

"You're right," I chuckle softly to myself. How could I have been such a dumbass?

She looks just as confused at my tone.

"God, you're absolutely right. There is _nothing_ going on between us, none of this even matters. None of this—" I cut myself off, turning on my heel for the door, "I'm such an idiot," I mutter.

"Rachel, wait. No, that's not…"

I whip around to look at her, "You were supposed to protect me," my voice cracks, I have seconds before I completely lose it, the weight of what is _actually_ happening is finally catching up to me, "you weren't supposed to hurt me."

She closes her eyes and her jaw is working overtime, her neck is pulsing. I know it hits her hard, we just talked about this yesterday.

"Please, Rachel," her voice wavers, "Rock..." she whispers.

I pick my eyes up from the carpet, making sure I look directly into her eyes. No matter how much it physically pains my heart.

I shake my head, "So much for being my hero."

Her eyes are red, I can see them from here, "I'm still _that_ person."

No. She's _still_ Quinn Fabray.

She only cares about herself.

"Not unless you plan on saving me from yourself."

Luckily, I still care about myself too.


	11. Chapter 11

The first time Quinn calls me is when I'm in the shower later that day, I miss it naturally but she doesn't leave me a voicemail.

She calls eleven times that first Wednesday night, in the darkened hours after I left her office, no voicemails.

The first time she texts me is Thursday morning.

**I didn't cancel our reservations tonight, I'll be there if you reconsider wanting to talk to me.**

I don't answer.

She texts me once more later that night.

**I understand why you didn't show, please know that I'm sorry.**

Friday morning I glance at my watch, 11:01. Our session just began.

**The couch misses you.**

I find myself unable to keep down my breakfast and almost don't make it to the bathroom to empty the contents of my stomach. I turn my phone on silent and fall asleep in the bath I draw for myself. Lauren wakes me up an hour later and I have 4 new texts messages.

I delete all of them.

**Happy New Years, Rachel.**

I stare at the clock, 12:00am. My eyes move towards the bowls of snacks, before glancing at the confetti flying past the camera on the TV screen. The celebration can be heard through the sliding door on the balcony if I listen hard enough. Another New Years Eve alone. There's something eerily familiar about the situation and I can't place my finger on it.

I run my eyes over the text message from Quinn again, feeling the strangest sense of déjà vu and not understanding why. I've seen this text message before. It hits me all at once. Senior year of High school, sitting on a couch, bowls of snacks around me, my father's snoring on their own couch. Every year we'd spend New Year's together as a family and every year I'd be the only one still awake. And although I was very much a part of the glee club and dating Finn Hudson, I still stayed true to my roots, choosing not to indulge in such teenage activities in order to spend the holiday with my family. Quinn's text message came at 12:00am back then too, as if she'd been waiting to send it. We'd never discussed it once school started up and neither one of us acknowledged the random and most likely drunken text. She was the first one to wish me a Happy New Year back then and she is the first to do it again. Of course back then the fleet of text messages came in almost immediately following Quinn's, the ones from fellow Glee members, even Santana took time to send one.

Vibrations break me out of my memory.

**Happy new year Berry, maybe you should talk to the medicine woman so she stops sulking, she's pissing me off**

**Rachel! Happy new year, did you kiss any celebrities at mid night? I bet you kissed ryan seacrest, is he as short in real life? Sometimes I imagine him in flannel pajamas **

**Sup Berry, you and q, huh? That's pretty hot, why couldn't you have gotten together in high school? **

**Rachel. Happiest of new years, don't forget I'm working on an original design for you to rock at the Grammys this year!**

Almost as if on cue, the tears come. Quinn had them send me text messages so I wouldn't feel left out, and I realize that under her command, the same thing happened Senior year. She was behind the entire thing so many years ago.

I thumb through the keys to send back my reciprocated wishes and responses to my once upon a time friends, thanking them for their thoughts, welcomed or not.

**At least I know you're still alive…**

I didn't send a response to Quinn, but it appears she got the message loud and clear.

Saturday night I'm dragged out by Jesse. The bars are empty and instead of finding someone to help me take my mind off Quinn, I leave early and curl up in a ball on the couch. I rent the first Christmas related movie that I find on my pay-per-view and fall asleep praying that I'll wake up a week ago in Quinn's arms.

I spend Sunday night talking to Beth on the phone, after I spend an hour talking to my father. Something I haven't done in over a year. I realize once I get off the phone that a week prior the two of us were carefree, drunk and eating Breadsticks without a worry in the world. I order Italian that night.

**Please, come to today's session.**

I don't go to Monday's session.

Tuesday afternoon I find out from the doorman that Quinn stopped by while I was at a meeting with my lawyers. That's when I began spending my days and nights under Jesse's caring and watchful gaze. Knowing my defenses would wear down eventually if I was left alone, should Quinn show up unannounced again.

I learn from Lauren that she does later that day.

**Rach, please. Do I need to get Santana on you?**

I don't warrant her with a response even if it gets me to smile.

**Sorry, that was a bad attempt at a joke. I just really miss you and I'm desperate to see you again.**

Wednesday I watch a marathon of Lifetime movies.

Thursday is when I get my first voicemail.

"_It's me. Please give me a chance to explain why I did it, why I requested you. I'll understand if you never want to speak to me again, just please give me one last chance to see you. I miss you, Rach. Okay well, bye." _

I don't call her back and it's because she still thinks that I'm ignoring her for manipulating the judicial system, not because she flat out stomped on any hope I had that we could ever be anything more than friends.

* * *

"Rachel, this entire thing has blown over; it's been over a week. That's like a year in Hollywood time."

I mumble into my pillow. Lauren opens the dark curtains to the window and it's blinding, I feel like a witch melting under the penetrating stare of the sun.

"Besides, the attention is now on Tristan, it appears he was spotted in Mexico on a weekend getaway with one very out and proud actor, the media is having a field day."

"Good for him," it's not sarcastic, it's literally meant as it sounds. It's about time he's found someone he's willing to be seen in public with.

Lauren begins to pick some things up around the room, throwing clothes into laundry baskets and cleaning up a few take out containers.

"Have you even left your apartment in the past few days? By the way, how was the MTV event on New Years?"

Seriously? It was exactly one week ago and now she asks me?

"I didn't go."

"I figured as much," she replies with her hands on her hips, "Seriously, Rach. This place is a mess."

"Meh."

I wonder if this is what a death bed feels like, helpless with invisible restraints.

"You haven't even unpacked from Ohio!" she shrieks, it's completely unlike me, but then again I haven't really been myself for a while. She hurls the suitcase onto my bed and begins to pull out the clothes I brought with me to Lima, about two weeks ago.

"How about we book you a nice spa day? Since it doesn't appear that you're going to today's session."

"I haven't been to a session since before Ohio," I remind her dryly.

"I'm aware, so why don't you shower and I'll call ahead. You need to relax and be pampered."

She's so good to me. What did I do to deserve her? Nothing.

"I'd rather just lay here until I disintegrate," I reply.

She chuckles, I doubt she's really listening to me or she's not taking my words seriously.

"What's this?" she asks, pulling something out of the suitcase, she's struggling with it, "Oh my god, is this your yearbook?" she's laughing and it peaks my interest. What is my yearbook doing in my suitcase?

It is in fact my senior yearbook.

I flop back down on the bed, "Quinn must have put it in my suitcase while we were packing, I assume she was trying to be funny."

She's completely ignored me at this point.

"This is hysterical. Cute sweater," she smiles, "Did it light up?"

I roll my eyes.

"Yes."

"Amazing," she mutters, flipping the pages some more, "Jesus, how many clubs were you in?"

"13."

"Damn," she breathes.

"What?"

"Fabray was hot."

_Was?_ Still is.

"Don't you have work to do?" I snap.

"You're making my job surprisingly easy when you become a hermit for a week" she replies, not looking up from the book. It's making me anxious. "So this was the girl that made your life a living hell? What is a Cheerio?"

"Cheerleader."

"Did you win any superlatives? I was most likely to be someone's bitch."

I think she's serious before I see her smile.

"Very funny, and I was most likely to be famous, thank you very much."

I was fairly proud of that one. Everyone knows that superlatives tell the future.

"Quinn Fabray, most likely to marry her high school sweetheart?"

Perhaps not all superlatives tell the future.

"Yes well, the one she wanted to be her high school sweetheart was my boyfriend, so I think the reason she was voted that was for the sheer fact that she would settle for the first boy that promised her a future."

It's making me sick to my stomach to talk about this.

"Smart girl."

Or desperate. But then again, I have no room to talk.

Lauren closes the book and tosses it on the bed before she proceeds to put away the remainder of my clothing, before shoving my suitcase into the back of my closet. The yearbook sits at the edge of the bed, a reminder of everything I've tried to forget. It's taunting me. It's crisp binding, its white lettering contrasted against the red and black, the silhouette of Sue Sylvester in silver outline; it was still mocking me nearly eight years later.

I have half the mind to drive to Quinn's office and chuck the ten pound book at her head, or maybe smash it into the glass protecting her pristine diplomas that hang on her stupid walls in her ugly office. I sit up and with quite some effort, I reach over to pull the book towards me, I can't just very well let it sit at the edge of the bed. I lean against the headboard and pull my knees up, creating a table for the encyclopedia of our senior year. It wouldn't be nearly as heavy if the Cheerios didn't get an entire page for each of their cheerleaders to display their high school resumes. As if they had anything else for people to remember them by other than being able to form a human pyramid.

It infuriates me that Quinn would think that it was okay to send this back to New York with me. She's stealthy and hurtful, just like she was back then.

The only people I truly remember from McKinley are the people that have gold stars next to their portraits, I'd decided to go through and mark them off for when I was famous and didn't remember their names. Ironic.

A picture is a snapshot of reality. No matter how posed it is. It's amazing how every single person's picture is a frozen summary of how I actually remember them. As if everything I ever needed to know about them is staring back at me through black and white pixels.

Puckerman's close lipped smile, almost a pout, parallels the devious and amused look that will never leave his molten eyes. You can practically imagine him nodding.

Santana can convey how intimidating she truly is with just one look, even when she's one dimensional.

Somehow the fact that Brittany's on the same page as her counterpart is a testament to how much power they truly had during their reign of terror, and almost underestimates Brittany entirely.

Finn's innocence is often confused for immaturity, his crooked smile doing a good job of making it seem like he's known what he's been doing the entire time.

The fact that Mercedes clashes with the backdrop in every possible way manageable, is just further proof that she always has and always will do things her way.

Kurt Hummel's tuxedo speaks for itself.

The absence of Quinn's candy apple colored uniform just makes me think the image that I've had of her in my head for all these years has been wrong all along, considering she's the only one on the team not wearing it. That's not what she wanted to be remembered for.

I slam the book closed. I don't even know why I'm looking through it. It's not like I can laugh or even cry at what some of the people wrote to me on that last day of High School. All the pages are empty.

I sigh and rest my head back on the wooden board, closing my eyes. It still irks me that she would send this back with me after we _specifically_ talked about it on our very first session.

"_Are you sure you've checked every page?"_

Son of a bitch.

Was it an insinuation? A nice way of telling me that I was wrong this entire time? That my grudge was for nothing?

I pull the book up again, turning each and every page as fast as I can without missing anything. It's not that I believe Quinn would write in my yearbook, but there has to be a reason. A reason she said that, a reason that she put it in my suitcase when I wasn't paying attention. If anything, I'm expecting to find her adult script, the words from new Quinn on the white canvas, one last attempt at an apology to me. A _better late than never_ sympathy message. There was ample time for her to write it to me while I was in the shower.

In the back of the book, I nearly lose my breath when I see it, the elegant yet bubbly lettering in black ink. From Quinn.

My eyes trace over a few of the words. It doesn't take me long to realize that it's from high school Quinn, that she did this when I was under the impression that she hated me. My fingertips glide over the impressed words. At first I'm afraid that they'll wither away like some kind of haze of smoke, because surely they're a figment of my imagination. There is no way that this is real and yet it feels so real under my touch. I want to cry, she's always had beautiful penmanship.

It takes me a second to push myself to do this, to read what she's written to me in this time capsule, only because I'm terrified that it will turn out to be hateful and cruel.

_Rachel, _

_First, congratulations of graduating. We did it, huh? I want to start off by apologizing to you, for well…everything that I've done. But most of all, for not being able to say this to your face, like you deserve. I'm a coward, but I couldn't let you leave Ohio without somehow telling you everything that I've kept inside since joining Glee. I'm just going to dive in because I don't know any other way. I'm going to miss you, as crazy as that sounds. I'll miss your drive and passion, your way of handling obstacles, your stubborn way of getting what you want. I'll miss your sometimes questionable methods at approaching things and I'll even miss your ramblings, which I never thought I'd admit. But most of all, I'll miss your voice. It's truly remarkable. When I was pregnant, I'd watch your videos and Beth even seemed to relax to the sound of your singing. I'm glad that she's with someone that shares your genes, she'll be in wonderful hands. I want you to know that I've always kind of considered you a friend, even if I didn't act like it. We rarely got along, and I suppose that it's entirely my fault, but I hope one day you'll be able to forgive me. I know that I don't even deserve to ask you for forgiveness but if you've taught me anything, it's okay to be a little selfish. I sometimes wish that there was a re-do button on life, or at least on high school, I wish that we had the chance to become actual friends. If I ever get the chance to reconnect with you or if I'm ever offered a clean slate, I'm going to take it. You're too valuable of a person to pass up again, and I'm pretty sure you're going to be worth millions one day. Kidding. Somewhat. I have one last apology, I'm sorry for stealing your yearbook and making you worry for 4 periods. And I'm also sorry that I'm about to make it seem like it was a hurtful practical joke. It wasn't, as you can clearly tell. I'd tell you that I took it to write in it but then this would seem like I was doing it to clear my conscience with you. I'd rather you find it on your own and one day realize that I'm not that horrible of a person deep down. If you ever read it. If you happen to, I hope that this can be something we can keep between ourselves. Not because I'm ashamed, but because it's something that only we know about. Kind of like an inside joke that only we get, except not a joke at all. You know what I mean. I see that I'm rambling quite a bit now. Your fault, Berry. Good luck in life, not that you'll need it. __Always__, Quinn _

I read it three more times. Still not believing my eyes and not trusting my fragile state quite yet. One slight move and I may shatter. I don't know how to feel. Emotions mean nothing to me anymore. Relief and hatred seem like one in the same. My double vision is finally clear; I'm just not sure what it is that I'm staring at.

* * *

"Miss Berry?"

"Not now Erin."

I hold up the yearbook as if it doubles as a back stage security pass into the office, as if it will answer all of her questions.

I shake my wrist until my watch is visible and facing me. It's half passed eleven, my session is coming to the midpoint of the hour. This time I'm sure there won't be anyone in the room with her, this is _my_ time. I don't give a fuck if I've missed the past hundred sessions, it's still my time. I throw the door open, ignoring the protests from the receptionist.

"What the fuck is this?"

A woman, who I'm realizing is the same woman that I barged in on last time, is sitting on _the_ couch. The couch that started this entire thing in the first place, inanimate or not, it knew what it was doing when it decided to show me the comfort it could provide.

"Rachel?" Quinn doesn't know what to do. She's just staring, I feel her wide eyes on me.

She stands, dropping her binder or notebook, or whatever it is that she uses to write down every single word that her crazies talk about. Probably about how they're convinced their dogs are telepathically communicating with them. Like I said, crazy.

My glare never leaves the woman that's starting to literally sweat.

"What's _she _doing here?" I finally ask, my eyes hitting Quinn's for the first time. I don't let it deter me, if she's cheating on me with this middle aged woman; I need to know about it.

"She's here for her session."

Dare she talk back to me?

"This is _my_ time slot."

"You haven't been here in a week," Quinn's reply is timid, hesitant almost, as if she's going to upset me by merely speaking. She's right.

"So you just replace me? Like I'm an old copy of Wuthering Heights?" my analogy doesn't make sense, I know it doesn't, but it makes me sound more in control when I have them, "And with _her?_"

Quinn's eyes finally realize that one of her mentals is still with us.

"I'm going to go."

She probably has a straight jacket to try on or something.

"That's a good idea," I sneer.

Quinn wants to argue, wants to protest, wants to stand up for something but she stays silent. Her eyes staring back at me as if she's trying to convey her indecisiveness on what to do. Sorry Quinn, I don't telepathically communicate with you like your other patients do.

The woman slips out without further encouragement from me. Because honestly? I'm at the point where I could yank her out by her ear.

"You should probably leave too Erin, I don't need any witnesses around when I murder your boss," I shout into the waiting area.

"Dr. Fabray?" she squeaks, I raise my eyebrow at Quinn, challenging her to so much as tell her to call 911. I wouldn't put it passed her to have a silent alarm button under that receptionist desk of hers.

"Everything is fine; you can take the rest of the day off."

I don't hear anything happening but I refuse to remove my gaze from Quinn. She could be packing heat for all I know.

"NOW!" I shout behind me.

"Don't talk to her like that."

I scoff, "Don't tell me what to do."

"Don't tell my receptionist what to do."

The elevator dings and I wait a few beats to make sure everyone is off of the floor.

She sighs and runs a hand through her waves. She normally straightens it on Fridays.

"You're upset."

Her observation angers me. I stomp towards her desk.

"What are you doing?" she's confused but it sounds frightened, as if I'm about to take her diplomas and literally smash them like I daydreamed about earlier.

I am.

"You don't deserve these," I gesture, brainstorming how I'm going to get the frames down off the wall.

She walks toward me and pulls me back towards the center of the room.

"Did you get my messages?"

Is she serious?

"I didn't pin you as a stalker, Doc."

She knows the friendly nickname is now a slap in the face. Especially after I admitted to her that I only called her that to piss her off.

"I wasn't stalking," she mumbles but trails off, realizing that she absolutely was stalking me.

"Why the hell are you cheating on me?" I ask, suddenly remembering there was another person here, sitting in my seat, and taking up my valuable time.

Quinn chokes on air; it would have been funnier if she was drinking something. It also would have maddened me further considering I'm standing directly in front of her and would have gotten sprayed.

"What are you talking about?"

I point towards the door, "Uhm."

"Muriel?"

"So she has a name?"

I start pacing back and forth.

"Rachel, I don't know how to tell you this but you're no longer my patient."

"Excuse me?"

She shrinks back.

"It's not like I ever thought I'd see you again," she tries.

Now, I think, _think_, it's meant to be a jab at me. I'm already seeing black and can't afford anymore darkness obscuring my vision.

"So your next logical thought is to replace me?"

There's something familiar about those words.

"Replace you? Rachel, sweetheart, what are you talking about?"

"Don't touch me," I pull my hand back hurriedly before she can fully grasp it, "You and _Muriel_ seem happy together, sitting on the couch, talking about whatever you feel like. Does Erin bring you guys hot chocolate, too? Do you make her go on sneaky dinner dates with you? Have you woken up before her on a Sunday morning just as the sun was coming up and thought she was sleeping so you pulled her closer to you, not realizing that she was only pretending to be asleep, not realizing that it's exactly what she wanted you to do? You write cute phrases on her lower back, too? I bet you guys finish each other's sentences and bicker for the sake of hearing each other's voices, did you have all of your friends send her text messages at midnight, too? Do you get her wasted on tequila so that you can mask your intimate touches as innocent? I bet you wear her favorite hoodie just so you'd feel closer to her."

I'm out of breath.

"Have you gone crazy?"

She _actually_ tries to put the back of her hand to my forehead, as if it was some kind of sickness that I've caught. She has no idea.

"Don't call me crazy!" I pull away from her entirely.

"I'm sorry, it's just, those are the things I do with you. Why are you accusing—" she stops short.

God, she's like Finn.

"For someone with a doctorate, you sure are slow."

She ignores the insult, either because she knows that she's not slow, or because she knows she is. I think it's the latter.

"After our _scandal_, if you can even call it that, it just didn't seem appropriate to continue seeing you as my patient."

"Yes, so now you and Muriel are free to ride off into your proverbial sunset," I roll my eyes; I've heard it all before.

She huffs out, "Will you stop that? She's 49 years old and has 3 children, why would you ever think any of this?" she whispers the last part, as if someone was still on the floor with us. Doesn't she know that I cleared them outta here faster than shelves on black Friday? See? Analogies equal control.

"Why are you here anyway?"

I raise my eyebrow, did she just? Yeah, I think she did. I'm about to channel my inner Santana Lopez, if only I knew some Spanish. It has a much greater effect if you yell obscenities in Spanish.

"I mean, why are you here, why today? You haven't been here in over a week," she corrects.

Why _am_ I here? I blacked out after reading…ah, yes.

I shove the yearbook into her chest.

"Screw you," I tell her, and immediately back away again.

"I'm assuming you read it."

"You think you're just sooooo clever, don't you Fabray? Telling me everything that I wanted to hear in high school, as if you're doing our relationship some kind of justice. Ha!"

She contemplates it. The being clever part, I mean.

"If it's what you wanted in high school, why are you so upset?"

I surge forward; she unconsciously takes a step back. I would too if I were her. She's trapped between me and her dark mahogany and shiny desk. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Ironically, it's exactly the opposite of what she was able to do in high school by writing her apologies in the yearbook.

"This isn't upset, this is rage. This is blinding anger, pent up aggression finally coming out. Did you think you were doing me some kind of favor by letting me know that you pretty much regretted everything you ever did to me back then? That it would make all of my hatred and resentment towards you diminish? Evaporate into thin air? Because your pretty hand writing admitted eight years ago that _you_ were sorry? It seems to me that you were sorry for yourself because you missed out on getting to know me. And another thing, what gives you the right to miss _anything_ about me? Miss the things that were never yours in the first place, that you never cared to make yours. No. This? This is fury because yeah, it _is_ what I wanted in high school but you were too big of a coward to say anything about it then. So no, I don't want your elegant words or your, or your psychoanalyzing on why I'm upset that we missed out on eight years, or why I hate you so much because you _still_ can't act on anything, even if it's blaringly obvious that you're what I want. And also, you have some nerve—"

"I'm in love with you."

"Fuck you."

I literally want to deck her in the jaw.

"No," she opens the book and if it takes any longer I'm going to start tapping my foot, she holds up the familiar page that I've read easily 30 times on the way over here. She turns the page to an almost blank page, the words _I'm in love with you_ glaring back at me in the familiar black ink, under it, the words _I'm still in love with you_ taunting me in blue ink.

I can't get to her lips fast enough.

I collide into her and catch her off guard momentarily. The yearbook still awkwardly between us as I grasp onto whatever body part I can. She hisses into my mouth as our teeth clash, I didn't mean to be so forceful but hell, who am I kidding, I meant to be that forceful. She doesn't seem to mind because she's pushing back into me just as roughly. And as hard as she's pushing into me, we're not going anywhere because I'm pushing just as hard back into her. The yearbook still wedged between our bodies magically, because I have no idea where Quinn's hands are, all I know is that I can feel them and they aren't staying in one place for very long. And I know I'm not holding the book because one hand is digging my nails into her shoulder blade and the other one is squeezing her hip. Our bodies are so flush together that the yearbook feels weightless. There are no moans, just heavy breathing and the sounds of her cliché desk decorations crashing to the floor as I push her further onto the desk. Her hand is roughly pulling on my neck, I'll have red marks and potential bruising in under an hour from her grip but I don't care. How could I care? My body is driving into her out of pure want and she's accepting me in pure need. She tastes like hot chocolate with a mint chaser, but her tongue is surprisingly cold against mine. I need to warm it up. It's my new personal mission. Friction the shit out of her tongue.

Quinn groans and I feel her hand near my stomach, I refuse to pull away from her for so much as a millisecond but she manages to remove the yearbook from the vice grip it's locked in between our chests. She throws it and it rattles the clock that's hanging when it hits the olive wall. We're both met with new enthusiasm, finally free of the physical and emotional burden of that damn yearbook.

"Say it," I demand, "Say it out loud."

God, she's a phenomenal kisser.

"I'm," she's having just as much difficulty in pulling away from me, I try not to let the thought go straight to my center, but the way she's grunting at her indecisiveness between telling me what I want to hear and continuing to kiss me is incredibly hot, "in love with," her voice sounds so god damn sexy "you," she finally breathes into my mouth, it feels like it's echoing everywhere.

I push her further onto the desk, the keyboard to her computer sliding easily onto the ground, the papers gliding like leaves through the air until they hit the hardwood floor, sliding further at the smoothness it finds there. Her pendulum is a distant memory as she looks up at me with her smoldering eyes, I probably just knocked the wind out of her but she doesn't seem to mind. I attack her, I'm not even kissing her mouth anymore, I'm just everywhere. It's one of the sloppiest kisses in the creation of sloppy kisses but she's doing just the same. Her wet lips are on the corner of my mouth while mine are sucking her jaw. Her tongue peaks out and tickles my cheek while mine is borderline raping her chin. I roll my hips into her and I praise the holy heavens for Sue Sylvester's rigorous cheerleading workouts because the way she just essentially did a sit up in order to pull me down with her, may have been the sexiest thing that I've ever seen.

"God, Rach. I should have let you read that letter sooner if I would have known," she trails off. At least, she might have. I've tuned her out.

_Let _me read it sooner? Let _me _read is sooner? _Sooner!_

She's moved on to kissing my jaw bone, I feel some skin get pinch between her teeth and I realize how feisty she could get with a hot singer straddling her like a cowgirl.

It's not enough because her words are lingering in my mind and they won't go away.

I practically fall backwards in a haste to get off of her. She's my enemy, she's the reason _it _took this long. I hate her. I'll always resent her.

"What's wrong?" she questions. I have to look away and I busy myself by straightening my clothes, brushing off invisible lint. I can't look at her face dropping with concern. I won't do it.

"This was a mistake."

"Rach…"

She's panicked and I turn away before I feel even more guilt course through my body at the sight of her basically ready to take me on her desk. _Her _desk. The desk she analyzes and figures out ways to make other people's lives hell at. The desk where she probably cooked up her entire scheme to win my affections. Manipulative and brilliant, that's all Quinn Fabray ever was.

"I just can't, not with you," I tell her and it feels like there is poison in my mouth.

I turn on my heel and practically trip on the area rug at my rush to put as much distance between us as physically possible. I don't trust myself, not with seeing her disheveled and panting like that on the desk, not after knowing how she feels pressed up against me, how delicate her tongue is even in the most violent of passions. I'd need an airport and a one way ticket to anywhere in the world right now, if I'm adamant on staying away from her.

"What?"

I'm already out the door, almost making a mental note to find some kind of memory eraser drug, or the strongest proofed bottle of alcohol and just funneling it.

I hear more clatter fall from the desk before I hear her footsteps making their way towards me. I'm tunnel visioned on the elevator, I know if I can just get to it, I'll be able to catch my breath.

I punch the button four times before I feel her presence behind me, almost animalistic. She's stalking towards me and it has the same effect as if there was a stranger chasing me with an axe. I'm terrified.

"No, I let you storm out of my office far too many times."

"Go away," I call over my shoulder, shakily. I hit the button systematically. One of these times it's bound to open the gold plated doors.

I'm practically shoved into the doors, so forcefully that I imagine myself breaking through the doors and flailing endlessly down the elevator shaft. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little bit.

"You would have taken the stairs if you didn't want me to catch up," she tells me, almost smugly.

God damn stairs. Why couldn't they have made their presence known sooner?

I cross my arms over my chest and regain my confidence.

"Good idea, maybe I could hurl you down them."

She presses up against me, a low hiss emanates from her swollen lips simultaneously to the back of my head hitting the doors, my eyes are seeing black as they roll to the back of my head. God, she's brilliantly made.

"You'll move your head if you don't want me."

I have less than milliseconds to register her words before her lips are back on mine, I growl into her at her trick. She knows that if I actually heard what she said I would have ducked out of her way just out of pure spite, not because I didn't actually want her. I _want _her. I'm just not ready to admit it to her yet.

Faintly, the elevator dings in the background—a little too fucking late— and the doors have trouble opening at first. Both of our bodies crashed so firmly into them that they're struggling to allow access into the elevator until Quinn pulls me into her for the briefest of seconds in order to gain entrance.

Blindly she leads me backwards into the confined space. The melodic music, so fragile in a way, is filtering through the hot air creating such a beautiful contrast to our not so delicate infatuations. I can't bring myself to imagine anything other than what Quinn would feel up against me without any clothes on and I just damn near come undone. Neither of us make a move to press any of the buttons, just along for the ride, much like this entire situation. Eventually the floor shakes from under us.

"Stop," I whisper out breathlessly against her cheekbone, not making any effort to actually push her away, "kissing," words are the hardest they've ever been, I swallow when I feel her tongue take my earlobe in her mouth, "me."

"Not until you admit it."

Her logic is backwards. If I admit that I want her, she'll stop kissing me? That doesn't make very much sense.

"No," I breathe, pushing her shoulders away just enough for me to be able to catch her lips with mine. As if she's on a spring, she bounces back into me with the same amount of force.

"Berry," she growls and I feel her teeth biting down on my lower lip, trapping my mouth where it is, "Berry," she rumbles again into my open mouth, I'm literally swallowing her words. They're hot in my lungs.

Demanding high school Quinn is turning me on beyond belief. I need more of her.

"You're still a bully," I manage to get out, it's a whimper, a low whine. I inhale and exhale quickly as her mouth sucks feverishly on my throat, tattooing me to her little heart's content. "I'm not worth your time."

My eyes slam shut when I feel her hand sneak away from my hip in order to travel down the side of my thigh, squeezing as she burns a hot trail and attempts to bring my leg up to wrap around her.

"I'm below you," I rasp out when I feel her lips begin to make their descent back up to my lips.

Ugh, I wish.

The elevator dings and it's as if we've just been un-hypnotized. Quinn flies away from me as if I'm some kind of disease and I cough uncontrollably as the doors begin to slide open. We're at the lobby and judging by Quinn's flushed appearance and tousled hair, it looks like we just had sex for five hours. I run my hand over my lips, as if any trace of her kisses would actually be visible to the man walking into the elevator. He's wearing a grey suit and is talking rather loudly on his Bluetooth, he just looks like an arrogant douchebag. Definitely cheating on his wife with his secretary. He hits the button for the third floor and I want to attack him. He couldn't have used the stairs? Lazy.

I catch Quinn's eyes and she seems to have the same look of disgust on her face. She sees me staring at her and smirks, we're totally eye communicating and I totally get the hype. We reach his floor and he walks off, unaffected by the fact that he just cockblocked the hell out of Quinn. I think that's why she's mostly disgusted with him.

I start to panic as the doors slide close, realizing that my only buffer had just walked away from me, abandoning me in the lion's cage. It fits; Quinn sure has showed how animalistic she could get. I swallow when I realize that I'm her prey.

"Rachel," it's soft and it throws me, this is not the voice that I just heard minutes ago.

I don't look at her. My eyes are still closed and I'm memorizing the classical music that's restarted itself again. She shakes me by my shoulders as if to wake me up. I don't make eye contact; in fact I go out of my way to look at the ceiling.

"Rach, please look at me."

No.

"I can't do this with _you._ You're perfect, I'll just hurt you," I answer, still not making any effort to look her in the eye.

I'm being brutally honest but it feels like white hot rage is taking over her body.

"Fine, would you rather this be another one of your one night stands? You have to have meaningless sex with someone in order for this to work? How about someone you hate, it can be out of spite. I'll give you that, I'll be that for you," she sounds desperate and out of options, "… I hate you, Berry. I always have. I lied to you in that yearbook, this is all one big practical joke Santana and I cooked up ten years ago before we joined glee club. I slept with Puck so that Finn would run into your arms, then I made him dump you the night before you left for New York, then I waited eight years, plotting the perfect time to strike. The last two months have meant nothing to me and you've never meant anything to me. Is that what you need to hear?"

She slams me so hard against the wall of the elevator that I momentarily suffer from whiplash, her lips provide me with the fastest recovery known to man.

I break away from her, still inches from her lips, they graze hers as I speak, "Did you mean any of that?"

"No,"

I push her back, this is a dizzy dance we're doing, "Well why the fuck did you say all of that?"

"Because I was your therapist for two months, you don't think I know one of your defense mechanisms when I see one?"

She infuriates me with her reverse psychologies and backwards techniques.

"So what were you trying to accomplish with all of that?"

She's still pressed against me, her fingers running through some of my hair, before she cups both of my cheeks, pressing an innocent kiss to my parted lips. My eyes flutter close.

"I'll be anything you need me to be, I just need to be needed by you."

_I do need you_. It's on the tip of my tongue and I want to say it so badly.

"This is just about sex for you," I huff out, surprising myself. That thought hadn't crossed my mind but now it's entirely plausible.

Quinn looks like a blend of a ten year old kid that didn't get any valentine cards and how I looked when Jesse appeared on the stage, announcing his betrayal. I've never been able to tolerate or understand his weird obsession with _Queen_, even if he's now my best friend and would never think of crossing me again. Not because I'd kill him with a blunt force blow to the head but because we mean too much to each other now.

I'm stalling with my thoughts so I don't have to consider the blow I just dealt Quinn, somehow seeming far worse than the one I would send to Jesse.

"How could you say that?"

"It's true."

"You're unbelievable," she backs away from me, "After everything—ya know what? No. I'm ripping that page out of your yearbook, you don't deserve it."

I want to call her bluff but Quinn Fabray is crazy and the look in her eye doesn't make me want to test her. I reject the notion that I don't deserve it.

"Like hell you are!" I yell, pushing her further away from me, turning immediately to hit that _19_ button that I hate.

That's _my _yearbook.

"It's not like you wanted me to write it, you made that _very_ clear. I'll take my words and be out of your life."

She glares and places her hands on her hips in such a familiar gesture that I feel like I've just gone back in time, all she needs is the red cheerleading uniform to make this image complete.

"You should have thought about that before you wrote them _eight years ago!_" I shout at her.

She throws her arms in the air, scoffing as if it was out of her control, "Ah yes, _why_ didn't I give it more thought back then?" She's mocking me, "Because I _really _could have predicted your complete one-eighty, huh?"

Such a bitch.

"Somehow I feel like you actually did know this was going to happen one day."

She narrows her eyes at me and I level her with a glare of my one.

"You're delusional."

"Finally, an honest opinion from my _Therapist,_" I sigh out exaggeratedly.

"I'm not your Therapist anymore," she grits through teeth, clenching her jaw in a manic kind of way, she looked the same after she found out Jesse egged me.

God, why am I friends with that douche bag?

"I'm retrieving my book and then setting your office on fire," I tell her simply, take it or leave it.

I take a step closer to her, ready to go on the offensive should she piss me off any further. I still have my defenses up in case she tries something against me. After all, offense wins games and defense wins championships. I'll be doing the _running man_ in the endzone after I'm through with her.

"I'll call security," she challenges, "You're not my patient, you're trespassing now," her brow raises, rather pleased that she thought of it all by herself. Oh, I'm _sooooo_ impressed. Puh-lease.

She takes a threatening step closer to me, our bodies meeting in the middle of the elevator as if we're about commence in a serious battle.

"They're going to have to catch me first," I reply.

We stare at each other for a long second, mentally preparing for what awaits us when the elevator comes to a stop. It feels like the seconds leading up to a _Nascar_ race, not that I'd ever watch that god-awful bore fest but I absolutely have new appreciation for gentlemen starting their engines.

Cue the elevator ding, our very own checkered flag.

My feet are moving faster than normal and when I finally gain traction I'm out of there like a bat out of hell. Quinn hot on my trail.

She's literally chasing me.

I lean down, I know there's all kind of tactics to use when attempting to outrun crazed maniacs, but somehow I don't think taking the time to knock over the receptionist's desk into her path will help me. I think it'd take _more_ time to get my strength up to even so much as nudge the desk, rather than crash it onto the floor. Besides, I think it'd be fairly easy for Quinn to maneuver around it, especially because I vaguely remembering her workout regime on the Cheerios including hurdles on the track. Instead, thinking quick on my feet, both literally and figuratively, I spot the magazines on the coffee table. Still the same lame ones from my first session, and push them onto the floor as I run by. Ha, take that Fabray!

"Seriously?" she yells from behind me as she hops over the glossy covered pages; I really imagined it working much like slipping on gumballs or marbles. Lauren needs to purchase them for me, those are trusty things to have on your person at all times, should you be trying to outrun a psycho-therapist or something.

I get to her office and slam the door behind me, I'm expecting her to run flat into it and fall on her ass. Maybe if it was entirely all glass and freshly windexed. Dammit, why when I want cliché movie occurrences to actually happen, they don't.

The door opens behind me just as I get to the yearbook, triumphant in my winnings I hold the book up in the air. She looks defeated momentarily until she realizes the position we're in. I'm trapped. A new look of confidence washes over her face as the recognition starts to make itself visible on my own face.

Fuck.

I'm cornered and my only option is to jump out of the window. Lauren also needs to purchase a parachute. Why hasn't she already done these things for me?

How the hell am I going to get passed her? She's a spawn of Sue Sylvester and as much as I begged to have them, my singing and dancing lessons can't help me here.

I juke to my left and she's there. I consider jumping up onto the coffee table in order to confuse her. I fake to my right and go left and she tackles me towards the couch. This god damn white couch that is _constantly_ in my way.

"Listen to me," she says against my struggling, "Listen," she says again as I start to give up, the icy breath of death upon my neck. It's over, tell my fans I loved them.

"You can have your book, I'm not going to take anything I said back. Ever."

This gets me to stop. Just, entirely stop. I peer up at her through my tousled hair, she looks amused at my struggles before she takes her hand cautiously and swats away some of the hair that's fallen into my face. She should be hesitant, I could bite her. And I should, I still have a tiny red mark on my palm from Ohio and if I squint really hard I can see it, or make believe it's still there. An invisible tattoo and minor battle wound of what we went through that weekend. A smile almost crosses my face; I think she confuses it for my reaction to what she's just said. Or maybe I'm confusing the smile for my memory of the weekend. Or maybe it's both. Regardless, I'm smiling and I don't think she cares why. If I'm honest, I don't care either.

"Look, I fell in love with you in high school, and I'm sorry if you can't accept that I'm still in love with you. Maybe you're right, I'm a horrible therapist and this entire thing was fucked up from the start but you can't deny that you have some kind of feelings for me too. Ohio meant something to you too. I won't take anything back ever, and no matter how much you pretend you hate me, I know you never could, at least not seriously. Do you really want me to go into my psycho-analysis of what it means when someone hates someone so adamantly?" she's smirking but it's an easy smirk, her grip around me has loosened a significant amount and she looks sure of herself but not in a way where I want to gauge her eyes out. She's hoping but at the same time knows that she's right. The yearbook is somewhere on the floor, forgotten when I was practically attacked while attempting to make an escape.

Is she trying to tell me that because I continue to profess my undying hatred for her that I actually am in love with her too?

"You said there was nothing going on between us."

She releases a small laugh through an exhale, "I had a patient in the room, Rach. I couldn't admit that in front of someone else, I'd lose my license and I probably still should. But my feelings for you, they're real. I'm sorry that I made you believe that they weren't."

I surge forward, once again trapping her lips between mine, and it's not as hateful as it was in the previous attempts. Our mouths open simultaneously against one another, both in sync in the moment and it's a different pace entirely. I'm admitting it. And she knows it.

"God! I hate you so much. Seriously fuck you, Quinn. Just fuck you" I mumble into her mouth amidst our rhythmic motions, her tongue sliding into mine as her hand comes up to cup my neck.

God, I don't hate her at all.

"Seriously fuck me, Rachel. Just fuck me."

My body shutters at her words and I pull just the tiniest bit away from her. Enough to look into her eyes. Needing to read them like I always can.

"You seriously want to be one of my faceless conquests?"

She doesn't even skip a beat before answering, "You don't already know the answer to that?"

I do know the answer to that. Why would she want that? She's taking what she can get but for once I want to give her more.

I sigh, "I don't want that Quinn, at all. I want to give you what you want me to be," I stop, regain my breathing and try to get my thoughts under control, "I think I can, I'm just afraid you don't know what you're getting yourself into."

She huffs out a mix between a laugh and a breath as if the very notion is something she finds utterly ridiculous.

She removes her hand from my neck and slides it over my shoulder and down my arm until she's linked with my hand. She tugs me ahead of her as she places a knee on the couch, and gently guides me from a standing position to a sitting position until she begins to push on my shoulders and doesn't stop until I'm laying on my back. She slides up and over me until she's hovering above me, her eyes running over my face before a small smile breaks out on her own face. I stare up at her in bewilderment, it's like I can see her eyes twinkling.

She leans down and places a soft kiss to my lips, I relish in it. It's been far too long since I last felt them thirty seconds ago. My heart rate had finally calmed down from being in the elevator with her but when she looks at me like I'm the only person in the world that matters to her, there's nothing I can do but let it beat right out of my chest. It's not like it's mine anymore anyway.

"I nearly failed Spanish senior year because you sat next to me," she laughs to herself, "Luckily Mr. Schuester cut me a break or I'd have to go to summer school."

I laugh with her, confused with her confession but I know what she's doing.

"I sang _The Rose _by Bette Midler one time because I thought you would like it," my smile twitches, it was beautiful, but I wouldn't allow myself to dwell on the times that she would make eye contact with me, as if she was singing to only me. I want to cry now that I know she actually was, "You told me I was sharp but I didn't care because it meant you were listening."

I open my mouth to tell her that she wasn't sharp at all, that I was just insanely jealous of whoever she was singing it for and needed to find something wrong with it. Even though there wasn't. She puts her finger to my lips, cutting off what I wanted to say.

She's laughing again, "I pretended to want voice lessons so that you'd show me where my diaphragm was," and it's as if she can't even believe she stooped so low to hang out with me, "Right here." Quinn smiles as she takes my hand in hers and places it exactly where I showed her.

She brings my hand up and places a kiss on my palm.

"I turned in extra credit assignments with your name on them so you wouldn't have to retake pre-calculus," I can't help but laugh, I'd always wondered if the teacher had a crush on me because it was a miracle that I passed, "I told myself it was because you'd simply die if you had to repeat pre-calc but I think it was really because there was a chance you'd be in my Calculus class the following year."

She swoops in to capture my lips briefly before she leans back a little, somehow my coat has been unbuttoned and she's pulling me up with her as she fumbles to get my arms out of the sleeves. It lands with a heavy thud on the coffee table

She leans me back down gently on the couch, my head tilted toward her as it lays on the arm rest.

"I threatened Mr. Schuester when he wanted to give someone else your solo at Nationals," my eyes go wide, partially at the thought of him wanting to give someone else my solo—even though they were most deserving—but mostly because Quinn _actually_ threatened him, she laughs, almost evilly, "I told him Sylvester had video evidence of him and Pillsbury in some very compromising positions on school grounds," I grimace and she chuckles more, "I know."

Her hands slide under my shirt, they're somewhat cold and bring goose bumps with them as her nails rake over my abdomen. I arch my back into her and she leans down again and gives me another kiss, she continues to place kisses across my face as her hands play with my stomach.

"I punched Finn in the nose after he broke up with you at Puck's graduation party," my jaw literally drops open, she giggles into my mouth, "You already know this, but I told you I wanted you to fail in New York so you'd come back to Ohio," she pulls back and looks down at me, as serious as ever, "And I drove to your house the next morning to apologize for what I said but you were already gone," my heart sinks at the thought of her ringing a doorbell to an empty house, for some reason my memory of driving to New York doesn't seem as bad now that I know the truth. She kisses my cheek and then laughs against it, it tickles, "and then I went after Finn again."

I can practically see the devil dancing in her eye in victory. She's quite proud of that one.

"Kate broke up with me the first time in college because I called her Rachel on more than one occasion," I frown, it's not that I'm not flattered by the admission, but I feel guilty for being the reason they broke up.

"Quinn, you don't have to do this," I tell her.

She nods and swallows, "I never make it past the first date with someone because they will always pale in comparison to you and it's not like I ever had you to begin with."

This time I pull her face down and place a kiss on the corner of her mouth, her eyes flutter open and it's pure sincerity and truth behind them. She's never meant anything more.

"Rach, I have _never_ met someone that can hold a room's attention like you do, I have _never_ heard a voice that I thought was better than yours and there is absolutely no one that I'd rather be with then you. I've been taking care of you and have known what I was getting myself into for years, even when you didn't know."

I reach up and level her body on top of mine, eliciting a strangled moan when she falls on top of me. Who it came from I can't be sure. My palms slide up and under her shirt, finding her toned stomach waiting for me, her kisses become more fervent and they're making me dizzy.

"Wait," she takes a deep breath and steadies herself along with my hands, "I need to know anyway."

I close my eyes.

"Am I going to be a one time thing?"

"You don't already know the answer to that?" I smirk when she lowers her gaze at the familiar words reciprocated back to her.

"It'd help if you said it out loud."

I continue to bunch her blouse up in my fists, her hands still encompassing mine like gloves. I inch the shirt up slowly as she sucks her stomach in out of flutters, my eyes are still on hers as she looks down at me. She's no longer preventing me from undressing her but she's still waiting for my actual answer. She ducks her head when I lift the shirt up,

"You're the opposite of a one time thing, you're a many time thing, you're the only thing, you're—"

Her lips cut me off and I whimper into them as her tongue surges into my mouth, I tilt my head up for some air and she continues her assault on my jaw.

"I get it."

"You're the one that wanted to hear it," I reply, "I want to give you a grand gesture of love, like you seem to enjoy doing."

I find it funny that our roles are reversed, her being the dominant one and myself being the one that wants to tell her how much she means to me. I don't have time to argue or further dwell, her lips inch back towards my mouth, she's smiling against me as I feel her hands fumbling with the button of my jeans.

"You're doing it now."

Oh god, she's good.

She leans back and pulls me up with her, her arm circles under my body to lift me off of the couch briefly in order to shimmy down my jeans. I grasp onto her neck for dear life and somehow she finally manages to rid me of the unnecessary fabric that only seems to be more of a nuisance than an essential article of clothing. I fall back onto the couch with Quinn's arm still underneath me and I pull her body down on top of me, frantically assaulting any part of her lips that I can get to. Her hips roll into me. Hard. My head lolls back and a low guttural groan releases from my body, I've never made such a sound before but I wouldn't mind making it again. If Quinn doesn't stop rolling into me, it's going to be the only thing she hears for the rest of her life.

I make a decision in my mind between hip thrusts that Quinn needs to be just as exposed as I am. My fingers fumble against her pants, not being able to get rid of them fast enough but not being able to slow down enough to get the job done. It's a lose-lose situation that Quinn needs to rectify, and fast. I'm about to explode with anticipation. Eight weeks of sexual tension just might turn out to be the sweetest death sentence one could possibly endure. Forget about the lingering and unexplained attraction that started in high school.

"You'd think _you_ were the one waiting ten years for this," she chuckles into my ear, I shiver and I'd have literal goose bumps if not for Quinn blanketing my body.

"I am," I breathe out and finally give up unfastening them, "help me."

Let it be known, Rachel Berry is no quitter. At least, until Quinn Fabray is straddling her to the point of no return.

She plants a kiss on my lips before she moves down my body. She's doing it on purpose, I squirm underneath her.

I realize what I told her in my haste to get her pants off, flustered Rachel is honest Rachel, "You know," I breathe out as I push her body lower, hoping she'll sit upright in order to remove her bottom clothing, "If you would have cornered me in a janitors closet in High school I probably wouldn't have been able to do anything to stop you."

She wiggles out of her pants finally and I hear them drop somewhere behind me, she looks at me hungrily and I can pretty much assume I have the same look in my eyes.

It's amazing how much strength I have even when such a beautiful creature is on top of me. I do a half sit up and as I unhook her bra clasp, she's doing the same. I slowly pull her back on top of me. Her skin pressing up against mine. If you asked me on Graduation day what or more importantly, _who_ I would be doing eight years later, my thoughts would briefly imagine Quinn Fabray writhing and sweating under me but the more logical and expected answer would be Finn Hudson.

Her palm cups one of my breasts, the contact elicits a whole other feeling within me, I've never been this intimate with someone, "Are you trying to tell me that you were easy?"

I roll my eyes, out of annoyance or pleasure, I can't be sure.

"No." I breathe against her forehead, "That I've always had a strange and inexplicable attraction to you."

She smirks and a little bit of cockiness graces her features. She has _every_ right to be cocky if she can make me feel this much heat.

She starts to laugh, "You know when you asked me if this was some kind of fantasy I've had?"

I nod wordlessly, I can't form words right now. She begins to suck on the delicate skin around my nipple and I arch my back into her. She pushes me back down with open palms and continues her sensual assault.

"It is, you and me. I can't even tell you how many times I've daydreamed about it," she tells me, her voice laces with wetness as she moves back up my chest and towards my neck. Her lips are soft and they feel amazing as they continue to coat my skin in moisture.

She doesn't seem like the therapist that I've met with for the past eight weeks. She reminds me of the girl from high school, dominate and certain of herself, and it's turning me on beyond belief.

"God you have nooooo," I get caught up when Quinn's knee starts applying pressure to me and I let the word roll off my tongue, "no idea how badly I've wanted to hear that."

She drags her knee into me again, bringing my body along with her as I ride up her thigh.

"Yeah?" she kisses the valley between my breasts, slowly making her way down towards my stomach.

"I've wanted to take you on this couch since like the third week."

She moans and pushes her leg into me once again, this time with so much force that she lifts her body up off the couch with leverage from her hands on the arm rest behind me. Her head drops down, her hair tickling my face and her hot breath on my chest. I reach my arms up to grip her lower back, helping to guide her towards my body. It's magnificent, the way we're clashing together in pure unadulterated want.

"God, you're sexy."

My cheeks flush hotly at her throaty moan, I can't believe how much damage she's doing to my body and we haven't even begun to do anything. How could I have denied not ever wanting this?

"Did you ever say my name when you were with—" I'm stopped short when I feel her fingers hook under the strings of the black laced thong I'm wearing, it slides down my legs, "um Kate when—"

She chuckles "When we were having sex?"

I nod.

She takes my hand in hers and drags it down her body until it reaches the one thing separating our bodies from fully joining. I swallow and pull the undergarment further down her toned thighs and it gets lost somewhere along with my own underwear. Probably laying helplessly at the end of the couch, or maybe they're on the floor somewhere. I look up at Quinn expectantly. She purses her lips together and quirks an eyebrow.

"All the time," she finally replies as she settles her body full into mine.

We both shudder at the contact and my eyes roll to the back of my head as her words replay over and over again in my mind on some kind of raspy voiced loop.

"You sure know the way to a woman's heart."

She maneuvers her body and I feel the folds of my center spread open to meet her own wet folds. My eyes slam shut when I feel her warmth mixing with mine, the stimulation sending tiny tingles all over my body. My nerve endings feel like frayed electrical circuits. The slightest movement sending me into a dizziness of satisfaction.

"The only woman's heart that I care about getting to is yours."

I release a shaky breath, "You're going to get me off on your words alone."

"Tell me a secret," she whispers as she begins to move slickly with my body.

I can't even focus right now and she wants me to tell her a secret? One hand grasps at her shoulder blade for dear life while the other rests on her lower back, steering Quinn's thrusts directly into my waiting core.

"I've never let anyone do this to me."

She slows her movements at my confession, almost to the point of a complete halt. She's studying my eyes to see if I'm being sincere. I bite my lip and I feel like I've just exposed my most intimate secret, I kind of have.

"Please, don't stop," I whimper.

She dips down and opens my mouth, kissing me with a renewed drive that accents her hip rolls into my already over sensitive clit. I jump at the contact and meet her with the same rigor. Our bodies are melded together, almost harmonious, as if I was only made to do this with her. She places kisses along my jaw bone as I continue to rotate my body into her. Our heavy breathing and occasional moan of pleasure is the only thing that fills her office, my heart beating wildly against hers, our lips meeting magnetically and delicately whenever they can. Her forehead rests on mine as she grinds into me with such ease that it makes me believe she's built for this. Her fervor sends chills throughout my entire body every time I feel her make contact with me. Her pants are kissing my face when her lips aren't and her eyes are voicing everything that her actual voice can't. Her eyes watching me intently to make sure I'm okay, as if I'll break from under her, as if I'm the most fragile thing she's ever come across.

I _am_ breaking down and it _is_ right in front of her eyes. She's so intrigued with watching me that she doesn't realize that she's unfolding before my very own. I'm covered in her skin, her muscles working into me, her hands clutching onto whatever they can find. It's all so surreal.

I cry out, unable to hold back how good her slickness feels against my own, it feels like I'm seconds from waking up from a very vivid dream. Nothing can feel _this _good in real life.

"Are you okay?" she whispers like the superhero I've always believed she could be to me, like my life is in her hands, as if she's just saved me from some horrible monster.

Ironic that she actually did.

I nod into her. Gripping her body tighter to me, as if I could never get enough of her. I don't think I can.

It's entirely silent everywhere but between the two of us, it's broad daylight and we're entirely open and vulnerable to the rest of the world. Yet, it feels like we're in high school, sharing our first time together while my parents are away for the weekend. It's memorable and everything I've ever wanted yet it's so careful and somewhat hesitant. The soft music from the elevator is playing through my mind as she kisses my fluttering eyelids. The music has been there all along, almost as if it was building up to this moment, created purposely as a soundtrack to our lovemaking. This isn't sex. This is me surrendering every ounce of my body over to her and already knowing that she's giving hers to me in return. It's me realizing that I can love this woman unconditionally and that she already loves me with or without both past and present flaws. That I already do love her.

"Quinn," I mumble, needing to muster up enough strength to tell her.

I need to tell her.

"Yeah?" she hums.

Her body slides into mine rhythmically, I'm so close to falling off that metaphoric edge and I need her to know, "I love you."

I want to be strong for her, to voice it with confidence and unwavering certainty, to shout it from the 19th floor of her building for every reporter within a fifteen block radius to put it on the front page of their tabloid, for everyone to know who she is to me. She deserves that. She deserves that and so much more. But it doesn't come out with the power I want it to, my voice gets strangled by her pure and mind clouding movements.

She picks her head off my shoulder and before she even has to gaze into my eyes to see the truth, she replies, "I know."

She has a ghost of a smirk on her lips as she presses down and kisses my swollen lips, "I know you do," she repeats.

Of course she does, she's known everything about me from the beginning. She's been able to read me since the start. She picks up on things before I'm even aware that I'm thinking or feeling them. She knew I was failing pre-calculus without me even so much as saying a word to anyone, she sang a song she had a feeling I'd like when in reality it was one of the only songs that I would sing when I got upset. She accepted voice lessons from me, and not because she felt bad that I had nothing better to do on Wednesday nights, but because she wanted her Wednesday nights to be spent with me. She threatened Mr. Schuester without ever knowing that I gave up the solo so that Quinn could have it, but she'd rather give it up than see me without it. She confessed her love for me in my senior yearbook and didn't care that there would be a chance she'd have to live in anticipation for eight years, always wondering if I'd ever read the words she so thoughtfully wrote me.

She consumes every aspect of my mind, when it was welcomed or not. She saved me before I even realized I was dying, she helped me before I was ready to admit I wanted it. She never gave up on me, even when I was worse to her than she was to me in high school. It never mattered to her. She'd rather take the verbal abuse than not hear my voice at all. I'd rather sit in misery those first weeks than not see her at all. She risked losing her license just to get closer to me and I risked my career to be seen in public with her. How does the one person I thought was responsible for killing me end up to be the only person bringing me back to life?

"Oh my god, I love you," I bring her face down, our tongues meet and I faintly taste traces of salt, it either means I'm glistening in a light sweat or I'm crying. Probably both.

She moans into my mouth, our collisions rapidly increasing their frantic pace, almost involuntarily.

She pulls back a bit, close enough for me to feel her lips move as she speaks but far enough for me to accurately focus in on her eyes.

"You're close."

I swallow, my throat has never been dryer. I nod, she always knows.

And as if I'm looking at a mirror, she swallows and nods as well.

"Come with me."

It's husky and demanding, but still has traces of a question.

My eyes slam shut and my insides feel like they're on fire. White flashes of heat roll through my body as I come undone beneath her, moaning her name into her mouth as I feel her shake above me. We ride each other out, not ready for the moment to be over, regardless of how badly we're trembling into each other. My pulse is unhealthily fast while my heart beats in my eardrums.

She finally collapses on top of me, letting her body grow limp against my already paralyzed body. Sporadic jolts of pleasure every few seconds remind me that Quinn is the one that is lying on top of me as if she's owned me all along. I'm still covered in her skin and the heart beat that's matching my own is only beating for me. Mine is beating for her.

We're numb together, liquidly fused to one another for long minutes. Time seems to cease and it's just the two of us, no words are exchanged and neither of us attempt to break out of this perfect world we've somehow created.

My arms are still wrapped securely around Quinn as her hands are buried somewhere under my shoulders. Her head rests on my chest as it rises up and down, my eyes don't open for a long time. And it's true what they say about losing one of your senses, all of your other senses heighten. My closed eyes just makes me _that_ much more aware of Quinn's limp body spread across me, protecting me from any reality that may come at us.

I swallow again, hoping to find some saliva that will soothe my sore and dry throat.

"Are you okay?" she asks hesitantly, she doesn't make a move to look up at me and I think it's because she's afraid to hear my answer.

"Quinn?"

She stays where she is, her head still tucked underneath my chin, her face away from me.

"Quinn, look at me."

She picks her heavy head up and her hazel eyes pierce through me with such a soft vulnerability that it makes me want to cry, I want to hold her until she's sure I'm not running away from this.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Her face lightens up a little bit but she's still guarded. Afraid that I'll freak out like I've done pretty much the entire time she was my therapist.

"You're not?"

I smile and shake my head no, my smile only widens when I see Quinn beaming back at me, she ducks her head in embarrassment. I drag my nails up and down the length of her spine; I feel her shiver above me.

She recovers from her bashfulness and is openly staring into my eyes; we both have growing and giddy smiles as I begin to write _Rachel Berry was here_ on Quinn's lower back.

She tightens her hold on me as she pulls her body up, situating herself so that she's once again looking down at me.

"That was—"

"Amazing," I finish and she blushes harder.

I nudge her head up with my chin and place a kiss on her lips when she finally looks up.

"Now what?"

She bites the inner wall of her cheek and thinks it over.

"Whatever we want?"

I smile and pull her up even closer to me.

"When is your next session?"

"Not for another two hours," she smiles wickedly, it's enticing.

"Have I ever told you that I love this couch?"

She laughs into my jaw as she places light kisses up and down it.

"Oh really? Cause I've been under the impression that you hated it."

I scoff playfully, "Me? Hate something? Never. I love it, I've always loved it."

Her brow raises, and then she laughs and shakes her head, dismissing her thought.

"Tell me."

She continues to laugh but shakes her head again.

"No, it's stupid."

"It's not to me."

Her laughter is gone but her smile is still in place, not being used to my sincere honesty but thrilled that she now gets it.

"I just find it funny that we just had mind-blowing sex and you're somehow still displacing your feelings. It's adorable."

She lost me at sex.

"Mind blowing, huh? I think we can do better than that."

* * *

**Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! You're all amazing! The continuation to this story is called Crazy on You, Too and it can be found in my list of stories. :-)**


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